For Love of Magic
by Logius
Summary: Two young Bretons begin their long journey for entrance to the famous Arcane University.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

**For Love of Magic  
**

**Chapter 1**

"You're endangering everything that we have held sacred for centuries!" Radaam Ulfson tried futilely to keep his the anger from his voice.

"Father," Rolan Ulfson, Radaam's oldest son and knowing source of his ire responded in a low voice, "you know I would never implicate our family or its secrets."

"Knowingly, perhaps, Rolan," the older man turned to his eldest and switched to his all-too-familiar lecturing tone. "You would never knowingly betray your family. Don't you see, however, the Arcane University is filled with mages who are skilled not only in their arts but in discovering the talents others would normally overlook in themselves."

Rolan turned away as his father's trump card was held up yet again.

"Rolan, they will take one look at you and know what you are."

"_Not necessarily, Radaam,_" a voice to the side of the sitting room caught their attention.

Standing in the shadows was a form measuring well over seven feet tall with skin the deep color of precious sapphire. Sprouting from either sides of his forehead were small horns colored crimson. Muscular though he was the most impressive feature – at least to Rolan – on his body were his glowing amber eyes.

"Don't talk nonsense, Maxil," his father addressed the familiar. "He can't hide what he is, not from them."

"_Under normal circumstances I would agree, my friend,_" Maxil, a Xivilai from the deepest reaches of Oblivion, and Radaam's best friend for the last thirty years, stepped forward. "_However, some of us have been anticipating this day._"

Narrowing his eyes, Radaam turned to face the towering creature. Although Maxil stood head and shoulders over the smaller Breton, he nonetheless took a step back as his friend came to stand before him.

"What do you mean 'some of us'?" the small man glared up at the Xivilai.

Obviously uncomfortable with the shift in tension, Maxil tried looking away, but Radaam was having none of it. Each time he turned his eyes or head, Rolan's father was right there to intercept. Thinking to rescue the poor creature from his father's well known temper Rolan spoke up.

"I asked for their help, father."

"You what?!"

In the corner of the room Raji, a young Clanfear, and the first creature Rolan ever learned to summon, raised her head from napping. She sniffed the air and decided it would be best to relocate her sleep to another room.

"It was obvious that you were not about to assist me in this, so I asked the only others whom I believed could lend aid," Rolan suddenly found it very difficult to swallow.

By some miracle his father didn't lash out the obviously brimming verbal berating. Instead, he took a deep breath and sat down at the small table in the kitchen. Taking great care, Radaam took the single clay pitcher and poured himself a cup of water. With a calm that was more unsettling than his normal demeanor he placed his hands on the table and exhaled.

"And what, pray tell, is this brilliant plan of yours?"

Taken aback by the sudden change of tone and the possibility of success looming on the horizons, Rolan spoke quickly.

"Maxil said it may be possible to suppress my abilities through enchantment magic," he explained. "Using daedric skills he could construct an amulet or other such item, then with the proper spell, it could serve to lessen my Conjuring abilities. At worst an attentive exam would yield that I have a gift for the art but not to the degree that they will suspect."

"An amulet would be too obvious; they would confiscate any such item. Initiates are not allowed into the University while bearing magical items, you know this," Radaam's tone was argumentative but not dismissive.

"A ring then," Rolan looked to his Xivilai instructor.

"It is still too obvious. You would need something that could be concealed underneath your clothing and avoid casual inspection."

"Yes, I suppose that's true."

"It is true," Radaam grumbled. "And just who would be the one to enchant the item? Neither Maxil's nor your skills lie in that arena, Rolan."

"I would, of course," a soft voice piped in from the stairwell nearby.

None of them had to turn around to know the source of the voice. Sweet, collected, and calm, as always, Syrah Ulfson stepped into the space and made her way to the table.

As soon as he'd heard her voice, Radaam's shoulders slumped and his head fell to the table, making a loud thump. He began to shake his head and mutter under his breath and Rolan began to understand that their newest ally had definitely turned the tide.

Imperial by birth, she bore the classic features of her race. Narrow cheeks framed her bright blue eyes which shone with an inner radiance. Her posture exuded strength that was belied by her small, distinctly feminine figure. Raven black hair cascaded down past her shoulders ending in well-groomed and lavish curls that were the envy of every woman in the nearby county of Anvil. In her mid-forties, Syrah was the most beautiful woman Rolan had ever known in his fifteen years of life. She didn't walk into a room so much as glide into it.

Although her beauty was a distinct weapon in itself, it was by no measure her only means of attack. Syrah had been one of the most powerful magicians of her guildhall. Skilled in the arts of Destruction, Illusion, and Alchemy all of those paled in comparison to her skills in Enchantment. Considered a prodigy at the age of twelve she could have advanced quickly through the ranks of magicians and even become the youngest Archmage in history and that had been the very course she had set upon until the age of nineteen.

All of her aspirations were set aside, however, the day she met Radaam Ulfson.

While it wasn't exactly "love at first sight" – a circumstance which Rolan understood completely since his father's physical looks could, at best, be described as frumpy – Syrah had never the less become infatuated by the man. Introduced by her guild-mate Hannibal Traven, Master of the Anvil Mage's Guildhall and Radaam's childhood friend, she had taken quite an interest in his father. In time she had come to learn the truth of their bloodline and eventually trusted with their secrets.

"You too, Syrah?" Radaam whimpered.

"Don't be so dramatic, Radaam," she chided. "Our son is growing up, and part of that journey includes stretching his wings."

"So he can fly into the sun?"

Syrah sighed, "He has more sense than that. You taught him better."

"Yes, and if he had listened, then we wouldn't even be having this conversation, would we?" even as he spoke, his forehead remained fixed on the tabletop.

"Be glad that he is asking our help, dearest," she paused, looking directly at Rolan. "Imagine if we had woken one day to find his bed empty with nothing but a note farewell to mark his leaving."

With that said aloud, Radaam sprang his head up to look at his son in shock.

"I… I would never-," Rolan stammered.

"I know, Rolan," his mother smiled, "but your father needed to hear that, I believe."

From then on, Radaam's position had gone straight downhill. The three of them had filled in the rest of their plan to obscure Rolan's talents from the Mages Guild. In the end they had won, and after purchasing a horse and sufficient supplies, Rolan had set off to begin his apprenticeship.

Against his parent's wishes, he had not begun his journey at the Anvil guild. Master Traven had been a family friend too long and Rolan held the man in too high regard to face him with such inexperience. No, Anvil was to be his final stop before joining the Arcane University. Besides, he was eager to be on his journey and spending his first apprentice year in his home town seemed rather anti-climactic to him.

Several agonizing days later, he set forth for his first destination, the city of Leyawiin.

* * *

"Three years," Rolan mused. "Three years almost to the day." 

"What was that?" asked Attlan Beryan, a fellow Breton and Rolan's companion of the last year.

"Oh, nothing," he shook his head, trying to focus on the moment.

With a knowing smile, the young man riding next to him replied, "Looks like you were off in your head again. Another moment worth remembering, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," he smiled back.

The two had met in Cheydinhal studying the arts of Alteration for the last eight months. Both had lacked a talent for the magic and learning had been slow and tedious. With each other's help, however, while not exactly excelling in the craft, they had acquired a moderate understanding and passed the tests. With their recommendations secured the pair were moving on to their next destination: Bruma.

Rolan looked over at his companion to see the young man twirling a large pad-lock on his index finger. With each spin the mechanism popped open only to be shut again as it fell into his palm. Impressive enough a feat standing still, but to do so while riding horseback on a slightly uneven road…

"Deceiver!" Rolan accused.

"Pardon?"

"You were struggling just as much as I was during the exam. Supposedly it took all your effort to just work the latches while sitting stationary and now here you are opening it at will as the horse walks!"

"I'm sorry, is this supposed to be difficult?" Attlan's eyes were full of innocence.

Rolan's eyes narrowed.

"So, I've been practicing."

"No more than I."

"Maybe I had a breakthrough."

"You did not."

"It's… possible."

"Don't lie to me, Attlan."

"Fine," he let out a disgruntled sigh, "I held back during the exams."

"But, why?"

Catching the small bundle swiftly in his hand, he lowered his gaze, "I'm sorry for the ruse, my friend. It's… it's just that… back home, I never had any friends. In a small farming village like mine those with magical talents are treated differently. Not only is it assumed they will leave when of age to train formally, but it's also the hope of all that they will never return.

"I met others during my time at the guildhalls but you were the first that I ever truly felt close to," he juggled the lock in his hand a few times then continued. "My father told me something when I left home. He said that if I should ever find someone that I could truly call a friend then I should do all that is possible to develop that bond."

The admission caught Rolan more than a little off-guard, and initially he was unaware of how to proceed. While it was true the two of them had developed a fairly strong bond in the last year, it was a relationship that he had been wholly unfamiliar with in the past. His father had never encouraged him to have friends back home in Anvil. There was too much risk involved with their family's dark history. That being the case, to hear such a confession from another, even though he felt much the same, he still didn't know quite how to respond.

Then, it came to him. Grinning ear to ear, he replied.

"Are you courting me, then?"

"Shut up," Attlan sighed and shook his head.

"I would just like to make it clear that, whilst I do not find you to be particularly _un_appealing, physically," Rolan tried to make his voice as amiable as possible, "I just do not think of you in_ that_ way."

"You're a fool."

"Now, if you had a sister which bore a striking resemblance to you," he gestured in a grandiose fashion, "I would not be entirely put off with her as a prospect."

"Forget it."

"Then again, perhaps given enough time," he made a show of eyeing his friend up and down several times, "and alcohol… lots of alcohol, perhaps a romance may ensue between us."

Unable to stifle his humor Attlan's face split in a grin, "You're a right bastard, you know that, don't you?"

Chuckling, Rolan patted his friend on the back, "Yes, but I'm _your_ right bastard, my _friend_."

He saw Attlan eyeing him sideways.

"I'm glad you stayed," he admitted. "It certainly made things a little more bearable."

Attlan nodded and smiled back in response before going back to twirling the lock.

As the pair continued their journey towards the county of Bruma, and their next apprenticeship, Rolan took the time to study his friend. To say that Attlan was appealing to women was an understatement. While most Bretons were possessed of rather rounded faces, his square jaw and sharp features gave his companion a more regal look than the rest of his race. Likewise, standing at over six feet high he dwarfed Rolan's more common five-foot-nine frame. He couldn't help but wonder if there were other bloodlines at work within his friend's veins, perhaps he had a Nordic ancestor.

Otherwise, his features were distinctly Breton. His sandy brown hair, dark eyes, and square frame were typical of his people. The only feature Rolan possessed which was contrary to his people were his eyes. Reminiscent of his mother, his own eyes were deep blue in color, the one redeeming feature in his otherwise forgettable face.

Most of his own physical traits had been cursed upon him by his father's rather dominating blood. A face that could at best be considered pudgy, and a smaller rather unremarkable frame – when compared to Attlan – had not done much to impress any of the women he had interacted with of late.

A love life was not his focus of late, he reminded himself. He was an initiate seeking admission into the Arcane University. Furthering his skills so that he could pass the exams for entrance was his life now, and he would not fail. He had invested too much of his time to be distracted by petty wants of the flesh.

Yes… that was the reason he had not found a female companion. Of course it was.

"An inn," Attlan's voice brought him out of his musings.

From their distance he could barely make out the sign of the structure, but he had heard from other initiates that there was a place to rest between the county of Cheydinhal and Bruma. They were almost a day's journey out of the city, and it was going to be another day or perhaps two before they reached the walls of their destination. While the sun wasn't quite low on the horizon it wasn't very high either. Perhaps spending the night under shelter would be best.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Should we stay here for the night?"

"We certainly have the coin."

That was true enough. His father had insisted Rolan take a more than modest sum of Septims with him but neither of them had counted on the fact that the Guildhalls would provide meals and beds for all initiates. Now that he thought on it, his mother had been oddly silent on the subject. Surely she would have known he would be want for little while on his sojourn.

As they closed in, however, the inn quickly began to resemble a shack more than anything else and quickly lost it's appeal. Both travelers looked to each other in agreement. They would not be staying the night there.

"A meal, then?" Attlan proposed.

"It seems busy enough," he looked on to see an Imperial Legionnaire dismounting near the gate. Next to the Legion horse were three other mounts, each contently chewing on the soft undergrowth at their feet. "The food is likely to be fresh."

Their bellies now rumbling, the two made their way towards the gate.

"The Roxey Inn," Attlan commented.

They dismounted and were headed toward the entrance before they noticed a fellow Breton sitting on a bench out front.

"Greetings, lads," the man said.

Remembering every lesson of manners his mother ever berated him for, Rolan quickly replied, "Hello to you, good sir."

"Welcome to the Roxey Inn," he nodded in greeting. "For a few Septims I would be happy to tend your horses while you rest."

"We won't be spending the night," Attlan answered. "But we had planned on having our evening meal here."

"Ah, you won't be disappointed," the man grinned, "Malene makes an excellent wild boar stew and her sweetrolls are baked fresh every day!"

"That_does_ sound appealing," Rolan remarked.

"If you like, I could tend your mounts while you enjoy your meal."

Impressed with the man's tenacity, Rolan nodded, "You'd have my thanks."

"How_many_ Septims?" Attlan's voice took on a suspicious tone.

Scratching his head, the man pondered the question a moment – glancing at their slightly unkempt robes and meager dispositions – before answering, "Six Septims each?"

Attlan mulled the price over then nodded, "That seems fair enough."

"Fair is my middle name, young sir," the man winked.

"And what would your first name be?" Rolan asked, extending his hand.

"Baurion, young sir," he took Rolan's hand and gave it a firm shake.

"I am Rolan Ulfson, and this is Attlan Beryan."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Attlan politely shook Baurion's hand.

As they entered the inn, Rolan quickly realized that there weren't many tables but managed to occupy one just as its previous inhabitants rose to leave. Attlan went off to negotiate the price of their meal while he maintained their claim.

He tried his best to clean off the table top, but most of the boards were uneven and he knew too much brushing and he would risk receiving several splinters. While suckling on his palm where one of the nasty invaders had taken residence he noticed that Attlan was speaking rather vigorously with the owner – whom he assumed was Malene – and the Imperial Legionnaire they'd seen earlier. Rolan could only guess at what mischief his friend was conjuring up for them.

A few minutes later, steaming bowls and cups in hand, Attlan was only too happy to include him.

"You'll never guess," he was grinning ear to ear, as usual.

"Oh, but I think I can," Rolan grumbled.

Attlan only chuckled in response as he spooned in a mouthful of the – surprisingly – rather tasty stew.

"There's a small Ayleid ruin near the road to Bruma," Attlan was practically shivering with delight.

"No," Rolan's voice was firm.

"Didn't you _hear_ me? An Ayleid ruin!" his friend whispered excitedly.

"No," he repeated.

"Rolan, don't be dull," Attlan complained. "This could be exciting!"

He couldn't keep his eyes from rolling at that, "Oh, of that, I have no doubt. Much like Kemen was going to be exciting?"

Attlan shifted nervously at the reminder. Several months back he'd let his older companion talk him into exploring a similar ruin near Cheydinhal. The two of them had barely made it out with their lives. To make matters worse, the "ancient Ayleid artifact" they had discovered turned out to be a rather commonplace ceremonial weapon with no real value.

"Kemen was different," Attlan tried to reason.

"How?"

The older Breton boy shrugged in response, "There were undead there."

"Yes, and your obsession with the undead is what almost got us killed."

"I'm not obsessed," he argued, "just… interested."

"We both know that's the only reason you're applying for the Arcane University," Rolan sighed and went back to his stew – he fully intended to get the recipe from Malene before they left.

Again, Attlan shrugged.

"There are no undead, there, Malene already confirmed that."

"Then why go?" Rolan looked up, confused.

"I may have made an arrangement or two," he answered, toying with some meat in the bowl.

Rolan's eyes narrowed, "What sort of arrangement?"

"There's a wizard, see?" Attlan's plan came out in a rush. "He has his own tower a day's travel from here, just off the Red Ring Road. Apparently he came by a few days ago in need of Welkynd stones, but Malene had none but she suspected there were some in the ruins of Sercen – that's the name of the Ayleid structure – however none of the frequenters could be bothered to make the trip for the price of a few stones. Now since Ancotar's – that's the name of the wizard – need and finances are rather impressive the price of stones may well be negotiated to our benefit. Malene figured that since the ruins are between here and Ancotar's tower, we could make the trip to bargain."

"Wait, if the ruins are between us and him, why doesn't this Ancotar just get them himself?"

Attlan grinned, "Because he abhors violence and does not wish to risk a confrontation with the inhabitants."

"Nor do I."

"But, Ancotar's a master of Illusion. His work has made him acquainted with enchantments, so I was thinking we might persuade him to create a pair of magical items for us."

"What sort of items?"

He looked around before answering, "Imagine being able to walk around unnoticed. Blending with the shadows as if you were a part of them."

"A Chameleon enchantment?"

"Yes!" Attlan's eyes sparkled. "Imagine the places we could explore! We could walk right by the inhabitants of any Ayleid ruin with ease. Reach depths and riches that even the most hardy of adventurers would fear to tread towards. We could come and go at our leisure."

The prospect was tempting, Rolan had to admit. He had been interested in learning more of the Ayleid histories ever since his mother told him stories about the ancient elven race. The regions of Kavatch and Skingrad were littered with ruins, but he had always been dissuaded by the tales he'd heard of adventurers who had ventured unaware into the dangers of the ruins and were never heard from again. But, to be able to sidle past them with ease… was it worth the risk of one more ruin?

"No," Rolan growled, shaking his head. "I won't be talked into another one of your 'adventures', Attlan. The last one very nearly killed us! We're initiates, not wizards, and don't have the necessary skills to take on whatever we might encounter. There are too many unknowns. No."

"Rolan," Attlan leaned in, still grinning.

"Absolutely not!"

Chuckling with mischief, Attlan was not deterred, "Yes, Rolan."

"NO!" Rolan was determined to hold his ground. He resolved that he would not budge from his seat until Attlan gave in. Rolan was done being the follower, now _he_ would lead.

Several hours later, Rolan found himself muttering various curses and openly questioning the purity of his companion's mother – all to Attlan's delight – outside the ruins of Sercen. The two of them had settled on creeping up to the outer perimeter of the structure after Rolan had spotted the light of a campfire from a distance. Not knowing if they would find goblins or beings with some degree of intelligence, they chose to play it safe.

As they neared the light, Rolan was able to make out the shapes of two people. One, wearing an impressive suit of Ebony armor was sitting near the fire, apparently tending whatever concoction was brewing in a pot suspended over the flame. The other, obviously an orc from the size, was walking along the inner perimeter, a sentry no doubt. He couldn't make out the race of the man by the fire, but neither looked to be in the hospitable mood.

Unconsciously Rolan found himself fingering the armband concealed beneath his robes. Made of plain bronze and wrapped high around his right arm it was the only thing keeping his strong connection to the plains of Oblivion in check. While he had given his word to his family that he would never remove it while in the company of others, he'd already broken his promise once before. His powers had been the only thing to save Attlan and he from the undead denizens of Kemen. As his friend had lain unconscious and bloody on the floor before him – having taken a diseased blow from a zombie meant for Rolan – the decision had rather been made for him. It had been done out of circumstance, but their foolishness had made the choice of putting themselves in that precarious position. Rather than learning from the incident, however, they were making the same wrong choices again.

Rolan wasn't about to let his best friend risk his life on his own, though, and he knew if it came to it, he would not hesitate in removing the armband again should the need arise.

"I'll take the Orc, you take the Imperial," Attlan whispered as he turned.

For a moment, Rolan was taken aback at the sight of his friend's eyes. They flared mutely with a reddish glow and he realized that Attlan was using his skills in Mysticism to see their opponents very lifeforce. His skills were impressive indeed if he could see both clearly enough from this distance to make out their races. Briefly he wondered what other secret skills Attlan had concealed from him. A pang of guilt immediately followed, however, as he realized there were more than a few secrets he had kept from his best friend.

Bringing his thoughts back to the matter at hand, he nodded his consent. As Rolan surveyed the scene, he worked out the best method of attack. Much to his dismay, the idea of killing these two men did not affect him as he would have thought. Perhaps the unsavory nature of the pair alleviated his conscience somewhat. It seemed he was doing the world a favor by ridding it of such dangerous individuals. At least, those were the thoughts he kept repeating to himself internally. Mayhap his conscience was not quite as tranquil as he initially believed.

Still, Attlan was going to go through with his plan with or without him, and Rolan was not about to allow his friend to venture into such dangerous waters alone. He would use every weapon at his disposal – meager magics as they may be – to ensure both Attlan and he emerged unharmed.

In his mind Rolan made a quick listing of the spells which might be of use. While Destruction magic was not particularly his forte, he nonetheless possessed a moderate skill in the craft. A few fireball spells coupled with lightning and frost, both with area affect and more powerful direct contact variations were perhaps the most effective of his limited library. Of course, his most powerful spells, those dealing in the school of Conjuration, were the ones he was least likely to employ.

He thought on that a moment. While it was true he could not risk summoning some of the more powerful denizens of Oblivion, surely Attlan would not suspect him for bringing forth a lesser being. His Clanfear companion for example, Raji, would be low enough on the tier to not arouse undue interest. She was extremely effective in close range combat and certainly fast enough to avoid any serious injury.

Leaning over, he whispered in Attlan's ear informing his friend of his plan.

With eyes full of his typical mischief, Attlan accepted the proposal and moved off to a better vantage point.

As his friend disappeared into the brush he felt the adrenaline begin to rise in him and Rolan closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself. Focus was his best weapon right now. If he allowed his mind to be taken over by his natural instincts, then the magic would be lost to him. Determined to maintain composure, he ran through the meditation exercises the Mages Guildhalls had taught him.

Once his mind was focused he drew the enchanted dagger strapped to his hip and reached inward to call forth Raji.

Deeper and deeper his mind fell and soon he began to feel the very flames of Oblivion lapping at his thoughts. His senses were bombarded, the heat of the lava pits which permeated the realm, the stench of sulfur hung bitter in his nostrils, the sounds of everlasting fires burning, and finally, the touch of a familiar soul.

"Raji," he whispered, allowing the smile to find his lips.

As he felt her crossing through the boundaries that separated his world from hers, she touched his very soul and merged with it partly. It was the only way a creature of the realms of Oblivion could survive in Nirn. They had to share their soul with the summoner. In doing so, they formed a bond deeper than any parent and child could know.

It was impossible to form such a bond without trust and skill, of course. By connecting with a mortal, a Daedra was risking its very existence since an unskilled summoner could easily destroy both beings. Many of the greater beings would not answer a summons unless they maintained a high degree of respect for the mortal, which was not an easy thing to inspire in a Daedra.

Raji and Rolan had known each other for over a decade, however, and their bond was as deep as any could go. He knew she would never hesitate to answer his call and feeling her transcending space and time itself to come to his side never ceased to amaze him.

As glad as he was to see her materialize, the Imperial Marauder was equally dismayed. Before he had a chance to draw his sword, Raji lunged forth and knocked him from his feet. The shield he had laid by his feet went flying through the air and disappeared into the bushes nearby.

"Korash!" the Imperial shouted, the fear evident in his voice.

"What?!" the Orc was on the other side of the structure and hadn't heard the commotion. He was moving now, and Rolan could hear the clanking of his boots as he closed the distance to his friend.

Before he could reach his distressed companion, however, Attlan gave him a surprise of his own. From a high perch overlooking the entrance to the subterranean ruins a lightning blast that Rolan could not hope to equal blasted with a thunderous boom and sent the Orc flying backwards. The large claymore in his hands skid off and embedded itself in the roof of a small tent.

Charging from his spot, Rolan set off toward his opponent who wasn't in a position to put up much of a fight by the time he reached the man. The marauder was holding his right arm which had gone limp and waving his sword awkwardly with his left hand as Raji pelted him with blow after blow. His armor was riddled with dents and it was clear there wasn't much strength left in him.

Sure enough, even as Rolan readied his dagger Raji let forth one final blow sending the man sprawling to the ground. When he looked to be getting up Rolan sent his boot flying into the marauder's face. Satisfied he would not be getting up for quite some time, he turned his attention toward the Orc.

Attlan's opponent had not fared nearly as well as Rolan's, however, and he watched in horror as the Orc ran headfirst into a stone structure. His senses stripped of him due to the flames engulfing his entire body Rolan doubted the poor creature had even registered the impact. At first he writhed on the ground for a few moments but soon after, he lay perfectly still, the only sound in the air the crackling of his skin as it was seared off by the relentless fire.

Unable to stand the sight any longer, Rolan reached into himself and summoned forth the icy storms of the north. As the frost blast struck the limp body, the fires finally dispatched.

"Why did you do that?" Attlan asked, hopping down from his perch.

Rolan could only look at his friend for the ridiculous question.

"He was my kill," his friend grumbled. "I wanted to see how long the fires would burn."

"We are not monsters, Attlan," Rolan tried to keep the disgust out of his voice. "There was nothing to be gained from it."

Attlan's frustration became apparent in his voice, "This isn't some practice session for Guild exams, Rolan. It's life or death out here. We don't have any senior mages to protect us should things go wrong. All we can rely on is each other."

"I understand that, but he was dead already."

"Then he couldn't feel the pain, could he?"

The obvious answer nonetheless eluded Rolan, "It's not right. It's just not right, Attlan."

"Trust me, my friend," Attlan clapped his hand on Rolan's shoulder. "They wouldn't have shown us any mercy."

"Your friend is correct," a new voice said.

As one, the two of them turned to regard the newcomer, both had their weapons ready. Raji, sensing Rolan's distress charged out to stand in front of them.

They calmed quickly, however, as the speaker emerged from the shadows, clad in the armor of an Imperial Legionnaire. Raji, no longer feeling thoughts of fear, relaxed as well.

The soldier held his silver claymore resting against his right shoulder as he spoke, "These men were murderers and thieves as vile as any you may have heard tales of. They would not have hesitated in taking both your lives if they suspected you carried anything of worth. Shed no tears for them, young sir. You have done the Empire a service this evening."

"Were you here the whole time?" Rolan asked.

Nodding, the soldier answered, "I followed you from the Inn. Malene can be rather convincing with her proposals, in my experience, and I was concerned that you two were heading into a situation neither were prepared for."

He looked around before continuing, "But I can see I was mistaken. An impressive performance from two initiates."

Suddenly realizing that Raji had been present far too long to not arouse suspicion, Rolan mentally dismissed her. He felt her twang of disappointment that they would not be playing longer but, before she vanished completely, he assured her that she would probably be summoned again very soon.

Behind them, the Imperial moaned softly before becoming quiet once more.

The Legionnaire pulled forth a set of shackles and walked towards the unconscious man.

"I'll take this one in later," he said. "I'm assuming that you two are intent on venturing into the ruins of Sercen?"

With a wide grin, Attlan nodded.

"Very well, I'll accompany you, then. I had received reports a band of marauders was working out of this location, but with our forces scattered so thoroughly, I knew reinforcements would be a long time coming."

"Perhaps this circumstance will benefit us both, then?" Attlan asked.

The Legionnaire looked up at him and thought for a moment.

"Very well," he sighed. "Thirty gold pieces for each member you and your friend dispatch."

"Fifty."

"Thirty-five."

"_Forty_-five," Attlan crossed his arms and stroked his jaw, his usual pose when negotiating.

Both stared long and hard at each other, then, in unison, they both spoke, "Forty."

"Your friend is a shrewd one," the soldier remarked to Rolan. "He should be a merchant."

"How do you know I wasn't?" Attlan grinned.

With the quirk of an eyebrow Rolan silently asked his friend the obvious question.

A wink and a slight shake of his head was all the answer he received.

"Indeed," the soldier grinned. "Let's go, then. Ready yourselves for anything. There may be as many as nine more men down there and an Ayleid ruin is a danger in itself."

Rolan took a deep breath as the three of them gathered by the entrance. He was glad to have someone with some actual combat experience, even so the nervousness was beginning to creep up on him again. It took less effort to quell the sensation the second time around, though.

With a quick nod, the Legionnaire opened the doors and hustled inside. Attlan and Rolan quickly followed.


	2. Chapter 2: Ruins of Sercen

**For Love of Magic  
**

**Chapter 2**

The Ayleid ruin had a dank and dusty smell to it. The air itself seemed to be as ancient as the stonework evident throughout the room. There was hardly a sound to be heard and each breath seemed to echo for miles in all directions. It was nothing more than a play on the senses, however.

As their eyes adjusted to the dim interior Rolan resolved to dig deep within himself for the courage he knew would be needed very soon. Beside him, Attlan clutched his arm, initially drew a confused look from Rolan, and smiled. He was glad to have his fellow Breton with him, he realized.

With a squeeze and nod, his older friend set off in a low crouch, making as little noise as possible. Rolan studied his friend's movements, noting the odd toe-heel placement of his feet. Attlan moved with an almost catlike grace, skirting from shadow to shadow with no more noise than a whisper of wind.

Their third companion, the Imperial Legionnaire soldier had removed his heavy iron boots before stepping through the doorway. Apparently he knew his armor well enough to realize that his footsteps would be heard long before he was ever seen. Attlan and Rolan, however, dressed in their simple robes and modest footwear were not as encumbered by their attire and moved with more haste.

Mimicking his friend's methods, Rolan moved ahead toward the stairwell several yards away. Already peering down, Attlan waited for the signal from the Legion soldier before moving on. At the foot of the steps he stopped short and motioned for silence with a quickly pressed index finger to his lips. The two of them froze in place and Rolan pulled forth his enchanted dagger while readying a spell in his mind. He could feel the magic in the air. The ruin seemed to be teeming with it. It was easy to understand why his fellow mages found these ruins to be so fascinating.

After a few moments, Attlan skipped over to the opposite wall and pressed himself firmly against the stone. He was effectively hidden from the view of anyone who happened to be looking down the corridor. With his eyes closed, Attlan whispered a few words and when he opened his lids again, his eyes were colored with a faint red hue.

A spell of sight, Rolan knew. Just as he had outside Attlan was using his magical talents to see the souls of all around him, and after scanning the area he held up six fingers.

The sight of the Legionnaire creeping up beside him almost gave Rolan a start. He quickly regained his composure, however and watched the interaction between Attlan and the soldier.

Holding up his index finger, the soldier traced out a circular pattern around himself then held his fingers to his eyes and shrugged.

He wanted to know what the layout was. Details.

With his spell, Attlan was able to see through walls and obstructions alike, and with luck his range was far enough to encompass the entire interior.

Two fingers pointed at his eyes then his hand shifted into an incline position and he held up one finger.

There was someone at the bottom of the next stairwell… and, in addition, he now knew there _was_ another stairwell.

He held up two fingers and pointed away from himself.

Two more were standing further away against the opposite wall.

Cupping both hands together, he held them against his cheek then held up two fingers.

Two others were asleep! Good news indeed if they could avoid waking them.

Finally he held up one finger and then simulated the motion of legs walking.

One was walking the perimeter of the room? That could be trouble.

The Legionnaire pointed in the general direction of the second stairwell, held his hand over his eyes, then shrugged.

Attlan nodded. The bandit at the bottom of the stairs was facing away from them or his view was obstructed.

Thinking for a moment, the soldier posed another query. He motioned to both of them, crossing his arms across his chest then tensed and pretended to fall over.

Paralysis? Rolan shook his head. He was not yet skilled enough in Illusion to perform a spell of paralysis. Neither was Attlan for that matter.

Attlan was not to be deterred, however. Grinning impishly, he held his finger up to his temple and winked. With that he leaned off the wall and started down the stairwell.

Before he had taken one step, however, the Legionnaire motioned abruptly for him to stop. Freezing in his tracks, Attlan looked back with confusion. With a motion of his hand, the soldier drew his attention downward to the tripwire Attlan had very nearly sprung.

All three of them looked up to see the spiked ball suspended by the thin wire high above them. Had he not been warned, Attlan could very well have been killed by the trap. He was wearing no armor and would have taken the blow straight to the head.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Attlan stepped over the wire and continued down the stairs. Curiosity getting the better of him, Rolan leaned his head around the corner to watch his friend in action.

With steps as silent as a mouse, his fellow Breton made his way to stand mere inches from the man at the bottom of the steps. The rather large Redguard male had an equally sizeable hammer strapped to his back. From the placing of his feet, Rolan could tell the man knew how to wield it.

Next to him, the Legionnaire whispered, "Get ready."

In two quick steps the soldier was crouched in Attlan's former position and he leaned in to watch the scene unfold with equal interest.

Attlan moved from a crouch into a stance and with his right hand clasped the Redguard on the collar. The man stiffened at the touch but appeared unable to resist further. Leaning in, Attlan began to whisper in his ear and Rolan began to wonder at his friend's intentions. Attlan was not attracted to men, was he? A ridiculous thought to be having now!

A few moments later the man began breathing heavily while Rolan and the Legionnaire shared a bewildered look.

With an ear splitting cry, the Redguard yanked forth his hammer and charged into the room ahead. Even from his position Rolan could hear the man's compatriots shouting in confusion.

"Talsem, have you gone mad?!" he heard the voice of a Khajiit female ask before he heard the sound of hammer hitting armor. All hell was breaking loose down below as the bandits tried futilely to calm their companion and Attlan wasn't waiting for them to join in.

"Quickly," the soldier called out, "summon!"

Understanding the man, Rolan reached into himself and called forth his longtime friend. With a stink of sulfur and gust of heat, Raji, a Clanfear from the realms of Oblivion materialized in front of him and sprang down the stairs in one leap. She let loose a screech and lunged into the room. Rolan and the Legionnaire were right behind her.

Already halfway across the room, Attlan let loose a bolt of lightning. The target, a tall man wearing a full set of elven armor, dodged it and lifted his shield while drawing his sword. With the surprise gone from his eyes, he headed towards the Breton mage.

Not about to increase his friend's problems, Rolan found a target of his own, a female Dunmer sporting Mithril armor and wielding an enchanted bow. With a call to his destructive powers, he let loose a frost storm and watched with delight as the woman dropped her weapon and curled into a ball. She hit the floor hard, shivering violently. Knowing that the spell wouldn't last long, he closed the distance between them and drove his dagger deep into her even as she drew her own blade.

Her eyes went wide with horror as she felt the effects of the enchantments on the blade drawing her life energy out of her body and into his own. Rolan felt himself becoming stronger and his pool of magical energy recharging as the bladed drained her.

Off to his left, the Legionnaire was dealing with a Redguard female wielding a nasty looking axe. As she swung the mighty weapon he brought up his heavy blade and deflected the blow with expert grace. Following through with the motion, he lunged forward and drove the tip of his claymore into her side. With a defiant shout, he threw his weight forward and sent the woman flying back. Another swing of his sword took the axe from her hands and Rolan watched as it skid off harmlessly. Now weaponless, the woman balled up her fists and swung.

The soldier easily sidestepped and slashed his blade in an overhead chop. Rolan watched in horror as the woman's arm was severed from her body and she fell to the floor in a pool of her own blood.

He looked down at his own victim, breathing the last bloody breaths of her life and his legs nearly gave way. Attlan's voice kept him firmly on his feet, however.

"Rolan, help me!" Attlan shouted from across the room.

He had apparently chosen the most seasoned warrior of the group and the man appeared well equipped to deal with magical attacks. As Attlan shot forth a blast of magic from each element, a different portion of the man's mystical armor shone with its enchanted properties. His chestpiece absorbed fire, gauntlets diminished the frost effects, and boots scattered most of the shock attacks. Every so often, one of Attlan's spells was reflected back at the young mage by the man's shield.

Even as the words left his mouth, Attlan's next attack, a menacing looking bolt of lightning, shot back at his friend sending him sprawling to the ground.

"Attlan!" Rolan shouted.

Without thinking, he reached down and grabbed hold of the Dunmer woman's bow. He pulled forth one of her arrows and set it in place. Taking only a second to berate himself for not receiving any training in the weapon he aimed it as best he could and let loose.

The arrow sailed wide of its intended target. In fact, the projectile was so far off that the bandit leader hadn't even noticed it.

Quick to load another arrow in place, Rolan took aim again and fired. This time the bow slipped from his grasp as the bowstring scraped his arm and clattered onto the stone beneath him. Again the arrow missed and Rolan growled with rage.

Holding his hands up, drawing strength from the sheer desperation to save his friend, Rolan reached into himself and called forth the fires of Oblivion. In his hands a bow of superb Daedric design materialized complete with an arrow. Pulling the drawstring with all his might, he angled the trajectory and let loose.

Time seemed to stand still as the deadly conjuration soared through the air. As the bandit leader raised his sword over his head to deliver the finishing blow to his friend, the tip pierced the back of the man's neck. Boring a hole straight through the bandit's throat, the arrow lodged almost half deep in the far wall.

The leader let loose a sickening gurgle as his weapon clattered to the floor and his hands clasped his neck. He turned to find the source of the arrow and locked eyes with Rolan. Seeing the magical energy gathering around the man's hands, Rolan knew he was fast at work trying to seal the wound with restorative magic. The man had threatened the life of his best friend, and Rolan would be dammed if he was going to let him survive their encounter.

Rolan pulled back on the bow and smiled with satisfaction as another arrow magically appeared. With a defiant call he let loose a barrage of missiles and while some of the projectiles slid harmlessly off the bandit's armor, many more were embedded deeply in his torso. Soon resembling an otherworldly pincushion, the bandit leader dropped to the floor, blood seeping from his many wounds.

With grim satisfaction Rolan turned his attention to the remaining bandits. Raji was contending with an Argonian in chainmail armor and obviously had the upper hand. Each time the lizard-like man tried to swing his mace Raji quickly ducked, dodged, or deflected it with her naturally armored head. Obviously tired from using the heavy weapon, the Clanfear took advantage and ran headfirst into his chest. The impact sent the Argonian flying into the wall behind him and he skid slowly to the ground where he fell in a heap. He lay very still and Rolan doubted he would ever rise again.

Meanwhile, the Legionnaire was dealing with the Redguard Attlan had enchanted earlier. At some point during the encounter he had come to his senses but not before he had severely injured his Khajiit companion. She lay in a corner nursing what had to be a broken jaw and several fractured ribs. Her armor had done little to protect her from the impacts of her friend's heavy warhammer. She was alive, though and her now coherent companion was doubly enraged.

With three capable opponents, however, he didn't last long. Raji caught him unawares with a staggering blow from behind and the Legionnaire took full advantage by swinging his claymore low dealing a vicious blow to the Redguard's unarmored legs. As the bow dematerialized in his hands, Rolan quickly followed with a blast of frost that soon made the man's lips turn blue. The effect wore off, but after the quick barrage, he was in no shape to fight.

With one arm their Imperial friend leveled his blade at the man and asked simply, "Do you yield?"

Unable to answer verbally, the bandit merely nodded.

Raji stalked over to the Khajiit female and stood menacingly over her. Not wanting to provoke the apparently angry Clanfear she curled up and whimpered. Through his link, however, Rolan could feel Raji's delight at all the fun they'd had. Peculiar creatures these dremora.

It had seemed like hours, but Rolan knew only minutes had gone by.

"Rolan," the Imperial's voice shattered the deathly quiet that had settled in the room.

Startled by the sound of his name, Rolan looked up at the soldier.

"I'll need shackles for these two. Would you be so kind as to retrieve a pair from my horse?" he asked, obviously realizing Rolan's growing need to leave the room.

"Of course," Rolan nodded.

"Will your friend here," he indicated Raji, "find need to follow you?"

Before considering the answer, Rolan spoke, "No, she will be fine."

With that he started up the stairs and out into the night. As he neared the final steps to the doors, he hastened his pace and burst through, nearly tripping over the unconscious prisoner outside. Falling to his knees, he leaned forward and lurched out his dinner. Although Malene's stew had tasted rather good going down, coming back up it left much to be desired.

He was gasping for breath as the last of his meal fell upon the dirt and he rose with what little dignity he could muster and wiped his mouth clean. It was done, then. In the ruins of Sercen he had taken sentient lives.

While not the first time he had fought to the death, his previous encounters had all been with wild beasts or undead creatures. This was the first time his opponent had been aware that their life would be over. Still not quite able to understand what had transpired, Rolan walked numbly toward the horses.

In the dark it took him a moment to get his bearings, but soon after he was making his way back down the steps with two sets of shackles in his hands. He was surprised to see Attlan back on his feet sorting through some miscellaneous items. A quick examination, however, and Rolan saw the empty potion bottles lying nearby.

Of course, he carried restorative potions. Even if he had not, likely one of the dead bandits had maintained a small supply.

With a quick nod, the Imperial soldier took the shackles and set to work restraining the two remaining bandits. Once they were secure Rolan dismissed Raji.

"Interesting bow," Attlan remarked as he lifted the weapon near the Dunmer woman's corpse.

Rolan didn't know what was more disturbing, the fact that his friend was close to death only minutes ago or that he now seemed without a care in the world.

"I suppose you should take it, Rolan," Attlan extended the bow. "It was your kill, after all."

"I don't want it," Rolan's voice was grim.

Obviously surprised at his words, Attlan examined the weapon again before asking, "Mind if I keep it?"

"Do as you wish," he found it very hard to look Attlan in the eye.

Shrugging, Attlan busied himself by sorting through the rest of the Dunmer's belongings.

"As a sign of gratitude I'll allow you to keep one item each," the Legionnaire spoke up. "But I'm afraid everything else will have to be confiscated as evidence. It will have to be catalogued at the Imperial Legion offices in the Imperial City."

"Only one each?" Attlan grumbled.

"That and your bounty, plus your arrangement with the wizard should suffice even your avarice, citizen."

Letting forth a wide grin, Attlan nodded his acceptance.

Some time later, after the prisoners had been secured and the bodies of their fallen comrades removed from the ruin the Legionnaire spread out the items they had discovered on the bandits. The three of them crouched by the campfire and inspected the items. A small unremarkable-looking ring caught Attlan's attention. As he slid it onto his finger his eyes went wide and began to glow with a soft blue tone.

"A ring of Nighteye!" he exclaimed. "This will come in handy."

"Very well, what about you, Rolan?" the soldier asked.

Though still disturbed at the thought, Rolan's interest was piqued by an elven shortsword the Khajiit woman had been wielding. He ran his hand several inches off the blade but even at that distance he could feel the icy enchantment the weapon had been infused with. It was true he had not been trained in the use of a sword, but the length and weight gave it some similarities to his own dagger. Ever since he had been a young boy he had learned the proper use of a knife, and one of the gifts his father had bestowed upon him when he left home was the enchanted dagger he carried with him at all times. Briefly he wondered how much different a short sword would be.

"I'll take this," he finally answered.

"Alright then," the Legionnaire bundled up the rest of the weapons and armor and headed for his horse. He had taken down the tents and fashioned them into a makeshift cart that he had lashed to the horse's saddle.

Realizing his rudeness, Rolan stepped toward the soldier.

"I just realized, we don't even know your name," he said, more ashamed than anything.

Chuckling softly, the Legionnaire answered, "Hayn, Itius Hayn. Pleasure to meet you, Rolan…"

"Ulfson," Rolan finished. "I am Rolan Ulfson."

"Attlan Beryan at your service, sir," his friend spoke and shook Itius' hand.

"And you have done me a service, citizens. I'm hoping that with these three," he gestured to the three prisoners, "the Legion will finally grant my transfer to the Imperial Watch."

"Best of luck to you, then," Rolan said.

"Luck seems to be on my side," Hayn said as he waved his torch overhead.

Together Attlan and Rolan turned to see another Legion Soldier heading towards them at a gallop. Even from their distance the sound of hooves clogging on the cobble stones were clear to their ears. After he reached their location the two Legionnaires spoke and headed off towards Lake Rumare.

"Fare well to you, young mages," Hayn called out. "Mind yourselves on the roads, they can be treacherous at night!"

That said, the two soldiers trotted off into the night, and the three prisoners – all tied to Hayn's horse – were hard pressed to keep up.

As they disappeared into the valley below, Attlan clapped his hand on Rolan's shoulder and nodded towards the horses. Understanding his friend, Rolan mounted up and aimed his steed westward. The road branched north towards Bruma, but he knew that Attlan would be eager to bargain with Ancotar as to their reward for supplying him with more Welkynd stones than he'd asked for.

Nudging his white horse into the lead, they made their way through the ruins and back onto the road proper. For several hours they traveled by the pale light of the moon and all that time Rolan's thoughts were troubled. He could not rid himself of the image of the Dunmer woman lying dead at his feet. Questions about her continued to creep into his thoughts.

Did she have a family? Had she come all the way from Morrowind or was she born in Cyrodiil? Was thievery her chosen profession, or had matters of circumstance forced her into it? All questions he would never know the answer to. He didn't even know her name.

"Hafalla," Attlan said, guiding his horse past some rocks on the suddenly steep incline.

"What?" Rolan asked.

"The Dunmer woman," he replied. "Her name was Hafalla."

Rolan stared hard at his friend but in the dim light he could make out little besides his glowing blue eyes.

"How do you know her name?"

"She told me," Attlan answered simply.

"What do you mean, she told you?"

"Just that," he shrugged. "I asked her and she told me."

"But, she was dead!"

"Even the dead can speak. Not many of the living world can be bothered with listening, though."

Cryptic words indeed. Was Attlan implying that he had the power to speak with the recently diseased? Rolan knew his friend had an interest in the undead, but the source of that interest had always been a mystery to him. Attlan had to know that Rolan would suspect his words, however. Could he be reaching out? Perhaps his friend wanted him to know how much he was beginning to trust in him. Whatever the case might have been, Rolan was not about to press the matter.

The two of them spoke not a word for some time. Then, as the village of Aleswell approached Rolan broke the silence.

"Someday," he struggled with the words. "Someday I hope we can share all our secrets, my friend."

With his head cast downward, Attlan answered simply, "Someday perhaps we will."

Rolan pulled in on the reins slightly and allowed himself to fall back next to Attlan. The two friends rode on in comfortable silence.


	3. Chapter 3: Unfortunate Circumstances

**Elder Scrolls IV: For Love of Magic**

**Chapter 3**

Rolan stepped into the chamber with no fear in his eyes. He bore no obvious weapon, but his left hand was concealed behind his back. Startled at his sudden and brazen appearance, the four inhabitants shared expressions of confusion. Three of them looked to one in particular before each other, and that look told him who the leader of the group was. Gradually, however, they began to recover from the shock and their faces took on a fearsome gaze.

"You picked the wrong ruin to loot, boy," a Redguard woman wearing a long, flowing black robe and an impressive looking Daedric dagger at her hip said. She was the one he had identified as the leader.

"Your presence here will not be tolerated," another – a male Dunmer dressed in chainmail armor with an axe strapped to his side – added.

As the last word left his lips, the Redguard woman smiled wickedly. Even in the faint light of the Ayleid stones Rolan could see the glint of her fangs. One by one each of the group parted their lips to display their sharp canines, all extending too far to be normal teeth.

The other two, a female Orc in heavy armor wielding a large hammer and a male Altmer in leather armor holding a bow, began to move to flank him on either side. With an upraised hand, however, the Redguard woman stopped them in their tracks.

"Lucky for you, I'm feeling generous this evening. We've had our fill of blood tonight," she chuckled at her own words and looked to the three corpses lying stacked in the corner of the room. One of the victims was an Imperial girl who could not have been much older than twelve.

"Leave now," she offered as she stroked her chin with a long slender finger, "and you may live."

"I don't think so," Rolan answered. His voice showed no sign of trepidation. His brow was dry as a desert.

If her companions were taken aback at her offer for his freedom, they were all but floored by his response. The fact that they could smell no fear from him unnerved them even more.

"Foolish boy," she cooed. "You're outnumbered four to one. Also, if that's not enough to frighten you, whatever will you do when our three companions return from their feed-?"

Before she was able to finish the sentence Rolan moved his left hand from behind his back and extended it forward. His movements were slow and deliberate.

When they caught sight of his offering, all four of the vampires staggered back with mouths open in horror. It was Rolan's turn to smile as his prediction came true.

Clutched by the few remaining wisps of hair were three severed heads, each charred beyond recognition. Still, though the skin and most of the muscle had been melted away, the bone structure of each face was enough to identify the two missing male Nords and female Imperial of their coven. All three heads bore an expression similar to the one the remaining vampires held.

"Actually," Rolan's deadly tone rattled them even more, "it's four against _three_."

On cue, Attlan materialized several yards behind the quartet. Using the two rings they had obtained from Ancotar he had concealed himself from view and moved in unnoticed ahead of Rolan. In each hand he held a separate staff. Just as the vampires began to realize their miscalculation Attlan spoke the magical incantation and released the energy of the staves.

In unison the Orc woman and Altmer screamed in agony as their bodies were engulfed by flames hotter than any outside the plains of Oblivion. They fell to the floor writhing as the fire, fueled by their own unholy bodies, cooked away their tissue. Neither knew relief from the pain as Attlan released wave after wave of magical flame upon them.

Enraged, the Dunmer pulled out his axe and started for Attlan but was knocked to the ground after two steps. Raji had leapt high over Rolan's head and landed hard on the dark elf. Once he was prone she busied herself by pounding her heavily armored head into his back repeatedly. The sound of bone cracking was clearly audible.

Thinking him an easy target, the Redguard drew her dagger and charged Rolan. She was nimble on her feet and skipped over the pedestal standing between them with ease. Swinging the blade from side to side, she took on a look of grim determination. The woman was no fool and knew the chances of her dying at the hands of Attlan or Raji were high. Knowing that no help would be coming from her companions she was nevertheless intent on exacting some degree of revenge. Rolan, standing weaponless, was her obvious focus.

Of course, her belief that Rolan had no weapon to defend himself with was false. As his companions dealt with their opponents, Rolan stretched out his right hand and reached within himself to called forth to the realm of Oblivion. With a burst of heat and the stink of sulfur a sword materialized in his hand.

The leader's own momentum was her downfall. She was already airborne, intending to use gravity to aid her strike, when Rolan's sword appeared. There was no time to alter her direction or deflect the heavier weapon.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. As she closed in on the tip of the sword her eyes widened in horror. He didn't even need to swing. Somehow he was able to maintain his footing and the absorb most of the impact with his shoulder. It took all his strength to hold the impaled body aloft and he quickly lowered the Redguard.

When her feet hit the floor, the woman was already dead, having pierced her own heart upon his blade. Her head rolled limp on her shoulders and her hands hung lifeless at her sides. Over half the sword was buried in her torso and still her dagger had yet to reach him. The dagger then slipped from her fingers and clattered noisily on the stone floor. Unable to bear the weight, Rolan let the claymore drop to the ground. With physical contact broken, the spell dissipated and the sword vanished.

No fear showed on Rolan's face. Instead, he was the very image of confidence as he stepped over the body and strode towards his friend.

"I think we are done here," he said once he had crossed the distance between them.

Nodding, Attlan answered, "I'm thinking you're right. She said there were seven in all, and we have seven corpses here."

As emphasis, Attlan kicked the charred remains of the Orc. On impact, the fragile shell crumbled to dust.

"Then end it," Rolan's voice was cold as ice.

Eyebrows raised, Attlan replied, "Are you sure? It would be a shame."

"End it now," he stepped within inches of Attlan's face, "I tire of this."

Her curiosity aroused, Raji stepped closer to the pair. With no sense of fear or anger coming from him and her new found familiarity with his friend, she did not perceive Attlan as a threat, but Rolan's body language seemed to counteract his emotions.

"Very well," Attlan sighed. "I'll miss you."

The older boy took several steps back, raised his right hand and pointed straight ahead at his friend. Raji, still confused, held her ground several yards away but tensed her muscles ready to pounce should the need arise.

"Till we meet again," Attlan added with dramatic flare as he let forth a burst of magical energy from his fingertips.

The impact shook Rolan to the core as the mystical energy shot through his body. Little by little he could feel the spell take effect and the clamp which had been set in his mind was let loose.

His heartbeat quickened so rapidly as the stored up adrenaline worked through his veins that he thought it would burst from his chest. One by one his muscles contracted and released as if they were reliving the series of events which had just transpired. Deep inside his stomach clenched and threatened to empty forth his last meal for all to see.

Confused and worried, Raji quickly stepped to his side and supported his weight before he could hit the floor. Through their link he could feel her anger rising toward Attlan as she tried to understand what was happening to her master.

Doing all he could to belay her thoughts of vengeance Rolan stroked her head and whispered soothing words to his longtime friend.

"Are you alright?" Attlan asked, obviously concerned.

Rolan wiped his soaked brow before answering, "I'm fine, my friends. I just hate dispelling magic is all."

"I told you the Rally spell was too strong!" Attlan complained. "But you had to be pig-headed about it, didn't you? '_I must have no fear if we are to succeed with this_,' you said, and I was foolish enough to listen!"

"It will pass," Rolan managed to say between gasps.

"As may you," Attlan grumbled as he knelt down to inspect Rolan.

Managing a smile, Rolan clasped his friend's shoulder and squeezed slightly. He didn't bother reminding Attlan that this entire venture had been of his concerned companion's design in the first place. In typical fashion, Attlan had likely forgotten that particular information as well.

It had begun over a fortnight ago, as the two of them were preparing to take their Alchemic exams required for the Bruma Mages Guild recommendation for entrance to the Arcane University. Almost as soon as they had arrived, Rolan had realized that though the guild instructors' skill in the art were impressive, none of them held a candle to his own mother's teachings. Indeed, even Attlan admitted that in their time together Rolan had taught him more about ingredients and elixirs than a year's worth of instruction spent with the so-called 'Masters' in the guildhall ever could. Hence they had opted to take the tests after only a month of study.

Jeanne Frasoric allowed them a special dispensation – after learning Rolan's family name – which enabled them to forgo the standard year of study. Much to the disgruntlement of their instructors, both initiates had passed the examinations with record breaking marks. Even the Jeanne had praised them for their talents and promised to write their recommendations herself.

Eager to be on their way to Chorrol, Rolan was dismayed at the guild leader's apparent procrastination in actually penning the documents. Both he and Attlan knew they could retrieve the letters at a later date, since the records of their scores were officially entered into the scrolls of the guildhall, but had opted to wait until the documents were in hand. Being well aware of Jeanne's forgetful nature, they thought it the best course of action.

Of course, Rolan knew that any time spent idle would only spell trouble for Attlan. Although he cared for his friend deeply, there were times he wondered if he would be better off without the adventurous boy. Cursed with an insatiable general curiosity and his interest in the darker arts of magic he often led them into situations which were questionable at best.

During their time at Bruma they had come inches from being detained by the City Watch when a traveling merchant refused to reduce the price of a rather interesting Necromancy book. Attlan had been intent on obtaining the tome, but believed the merchant's price of five thousand Septims was outrageous. Unwilling to falter in his position, Attlan had attempted to use a spell to make the mer more amiable to bargaining. There was no way his friend could have known the man wore an enchanted amulet protecting him from such charms. Obviously not appreciating the sentiment, the mer, a Dunmer with impressive clothing, had threatened to press charges on him.

Only Attlan's quick wit and sharp mind had prevented them – Rolan being the "accomplice" to the crime – from being arrested on the spot. As compensation, Attlan had agreed to obtain an item of particular interest to the merchant.

Located in the Ayleid ruins of Ninendava – upon hearing the location Rolan wondered if he would be cursed with exploring every single Ayleid structure before his next birthday – the item was supposedly of considerable value to a collector residing in the Imperial City. Unfortunately the merchant had been unable to obtain the item himself since a coven of vampires had recently taken up residence there. Unwilling to risk his own life for the prize, the Dunmer had no problems allowing the two of them the opportunity.

The pair knew that any criminal offense could spell disaster for their relations with the Mages Guild and so were compelled to agree to the task. Somehow Attlan had convinced the mer to add the Necromancy book into the agreement.

Unlike their previous forays into Kemen and Sercen, Rolan had insisted they be prepared for their venture. He spoke to several of the mages attempting to discover any facts about the location. Attlan, in the mean time, had read up on vampiric lore in an attempt to discover effective tactics for combating the creatures. Only after Rolan had obtained a rough schematic and more than a few insistent warnings had he agreed to proceed.

The only problem left was his own trepidation in entering combat once more. His experience in Sercen had affected him greatly, and the thought of willingly entering into a life and death situation again was more than his nerves could handle. As a solution, he chose to tap into his friend's skills with the arts of Illusion.

Attlan had cast a spell on him dispelling all his fears and anxiety, effectively turning him into a living golem. With no concerns about killing bothering him, he had performed miraculously in the battle – far beyond his own expectations. The two Nords had posed little threat and he had dispatched them rather quickly. Attlan had dealt with the Imperial woman guarding the entrance.

Now, however, the fear and reality of the situation was assaulting his senses and threatening to overcome him completely. As all the emotion he should have felt during the altercation came flooding back into his thoughts. Perhaps his plan had not been well thought out enough.

"I'm alright," he breathed as his body began to settle several minutes later. "It was unexpected, is all. I was not anticipating such a rush of emotion."

"I told you it could be disorienting," Attlan's voice was full of ire, but his hands were gentle as he helped Rolan up.

He managed a chuckle at his friend's duality, "You did, and I should have listened."

"Yes, well, perhaps it's not something you should repeat in the future," caught off-guard at the statement, Attlan nonetheless recovered quickly. "Now, back to the task at hand. Where is this statue?"

"If I remember correctly, there should be a storage area back near the entrance. Our prize is likely to be there, and perhaps our friends here would not mind contributing something to our endeavors as well."

"Well, we were kind enough to relieve them of their ties to this realm. Proper remuneration would be expected," Attlan grinned impishly.

"Indeed," Rolan shook his head. "I shall see what there is to find here, you should obtain our reprieve."

Attlan let out a nervous chuckle at his choice of wording. Once his friend was gone Rolan took another moment to steady himself. Satisfied that the effects of the spell were finally dissipated he stepped away from the support of the pedestal and walked toward the back room. He had noticed a desk earlier and was curious about the contents of a book set atop it.

Darkest Darkness was the name of the book, and his eyebrows shot up as he opened the cover and read its contents. As he assimilated the information he found himself smiling at fond childhood memories. The memory of his first summoning – which had been Raji, of course – was the most vivid and he closed his eyes to savor the recurring emotions.

Continuing with the book, he couldn't help but roll his eyes at some of the text. Whomever had penned the thing had not found the courage to sign it with their name. Likely they realized that any with real knowledge on the subject of Daedra would have discredited their work upon sight. Instead they chose to live in secured anonymity.

"Good Daedra indeed," he scoffed aloud.

No longer interested, he tossed the book back on the desk. Beneath the desk he noticed a rather unremarkable key. It wasn't the right size to fit any of the chest locks and if Attlan needed it for a door, then likely he would return for it. Rather than bother with it, Rolan shrugged and placed it atop the book. There were several containers in the rooms nearby, and he next busied himself with searching their contents. Inside some he found gold and a few trinkets. One of them contained an impressive ring with an enchantment protecting the wearer from physical attacks. He placed the item in his coin purse and looked to the fallen vampires.

The Altmer and Orc had all but fused with their trappings and he seriously doubted there would be anything of worth on their bodies. Around the neck of the Dunmer he found an amulet boosting magical skills. The leader of the group was wearing several enchanted items. First, her dagger was infused with the power of thunder. Had she made even the tiniest contact he would have likely been severely injured by the weapon.

Also, she wore two rings which had succeeded in lowering her overall weight. One of the pair was weaker than the other, but both were impressive enough in their own right. No wonder she had been able to leap over the pedestal with ease. Initially Rolan had attributed the act to her vampiric abilities, but apparently she had relied on magic to assist her as well.

Almost invisible from view, she was also wearing a circlet. He would have called it a tiara but it was all but concealed from view strapped to her forehead underneath her hair. It was far too small for either him or Attlan to wear, obviously being designed for more feminine features. With closed eyes he probed the item, searching for whatever enchantment it might hold. After minutes of focus, he could not discern its purpose. Deciding not to press the issue, he placed the circlet into a pocket concealed beneath his robes and continued searching.

Finally, he found that her shoes, a pair of blue slippers, had also been imbued with magical properties. He wasn't quite sure what the enchantment was either, but there was definite magic in them. Perhaps one of the mages at the guildhall could discern their properties?

"Anything interesting?" Attlan surprised him as he strolled into the room. In his hands was a large statue of obvious Ayleid design.

"A few, actually."

"Well, we have what we came for," he hefted the item. "No sense lingering to see if any neighbors might decide to drop by."

Rolan raised his eyebrow at the statement.

"Something I read. Most vampire covens of this size maintain contact with other covens nearby. Either for protection, competition, or sanctuary."

"Ah, I see."

"Exactly, and the sun will be going down soon so if someone wants to pay a visit," he looked around the room, "to borrow a cup of liver or something…"

"It does not seem right," Rolan mumbled. "These people deserve a proper burial."

Turning to the corner of the room, Attlan saw the bodies stacked like bags of grain.

"Unfortunately if we're not quick, then we may yet join them."

"You're right, let us be off, then," Rolan stood and followed Attlan out of the ruin.

As they emerged from the dark and musty ruins, the rays of the setting sun shone too bright and they took a moment to let their eyes adjust.

"I keep forgetting about this part," Attlan grumbled.

Rolan nodded, "As do I."

A whisper in Rolan's mind distracted him for a moment, and he found himself staring off to the northern Jerall Mountain range. The voice was incomprehensible, although he didn't think it was speaking any language he was familiar with. For a brief moment he thought it was his father trying to project his thoughts but the presence he felt lacked the familiarity. The sound began to reverberate through his mind, becoming a heartbeat that echoed through his head as noisy footsteps in a deep cavern. Beat for beat his heart synced with the one in his mind, and he felt his legs step toward the source.

"Rolan?" Attlan's voice and sudden grip on his shoulder shattered the connection.

"What?" he felt disoriented and thought he might lose his balance.

"Are you alright?"

As his legs did begin to give way, Attlan was quick to grab hold and support his weight. Rolan's shaky hand touched his brow as he tried to understand what had just happened.

"Is it the spell?" Attlan asked.

He shook his head in response, "No, it is… I do not know what it was."

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I feel as if I have."

After a pause, Attlan suggested, "Come on, then, let's put some distance from here before the sun goes down."

"Right, yes."

He needed Attlan's help to pull himself onto the saddle, but once mounted they were quick to gallop away. Oddly enough, the further they fled from the ruins, the more he seemed to recover.

They followed the same mountain trail they had used to reach Ninendava and knew it would be at least a day's journey till they reached the safety of Bruma's walls. That night he showed the enchanted items he'd discovered to Attlan and the two set about dividing the spoils. With both the slippers and circlet not appealing to either of them, the pair agreed it would probably be best to sell them back at Bruma.

"I must admit," Rolan conceded, "this adventuring of ours, however disgruntling it may come about, is certainly beginning to profit."

Eyes wide in mock astonishment Attlan chided, "Why, Rolan Ulfson, is that a positive remark I hear disguised within a grumbling complaint?"

In response, Rolan launched a small bolt of lightning across the campfire and toward Attlan's feet. The impact had little effect except to induce a fit of laughter from his friend.

Once his tirade was complete, Attlan grabbed the statue and looked it over.

"How much do you think this is worth to that collector in the Imperial City?" he asked.

"No, Attlan."

"Nothing much is worth an Attlan, my friend, but how many Septims would he pay for it, do you think?"

"Uriel Septims or Pelenial Septims?"

"Quite humorous," Attlan barked a deep and bellowing laugh resembling that of a Nord, but there was no actual mirth in it. "I was serious, though. Do you think we could get a good price for it if we were to sell it to the collector ourselves?"

With a long sigh, Rolan answered, "I am certain we could, my ill-minded friend, but doing so would likely incur the wrath of that merchant you attempted to assail in Bruma. Whose response would likely be to report your actions to the authorities which would inevitably result in our expulsion from the Mages Guild."

As his memory of recent events miraculously returned to him, Attlan made a sour face and set the statue down on the ground.

"Oh, right, there is that, isn't there?" he grumbled.

Rolan sighed again and continued with his meal – a rather unfulfilling mixture of venison and several bland herbs. Not for the first time he longed for a bowl of Malene's Wild Boar Stew. Although he had managed to acquire the recipe from the Nordic woman but the ingredients required were not easy to procure. All his attempts at substitutions had resulted with less than impressive flavor. If they were to pass by the Roxey Inn again he was going to make sure to purchase a large quantity of the spices she used.

"We could just kill him, of course."

"What?" Rolan looked up, confused.

"The merchant," Attlan's face was hidden beneath the cowl of his robe.

"What do you mean?"

"He's a traveling merchant, and the roads are a dangerous place. I'm sure people meet with unfortunate circumstances every day. No one would think anything of it."

A long silence ensued. Rolan tried to study the tone and manner of his friend, but was at a loss. Attlan had a peculiar sense of humor, and Rolan was often at a loss to understand the inner workings of his friend's thoughts. Was he being serious? They had killed in the past, but only in self-defense or to aid the safety of others. This was something altogether different. It was premeditated and wholly unnecessary.

"Attlan-" he began but was quickly interrupted.

"Rolan, you are far too gullible," Attlan said as he tossed back his hood and smiled.

Anger rising in him, Rolan replied, "That was not funny, Attlan."

Rather than get into another discussion-turned-lecture with his friend, Rolan discarded his meal, stood up, and walked to his bedroll. The food was not to his liking anyway. It was some time before Attlan stopped tending the fire.


	4. Chapter 4: Disturbing Circumstances

**Author's Note:** One of the goals with this series is to attempt to maintain some semblance of consistency with the world created by Bethesda. That being said, if anyone should find portions of the story that could not be written off as "creative liberties" but instead clash with the accepted lore of the games, please let me know.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Disturbing Circumstances**

"Let's just talk to him, he says!" Attlan shouted above the roar of thunder as another lightning bolt shot forth from his staff. Several yards away, another ogre appeared from behind some rocks and charged toward the pair.

Standing back to back with his friend, Rolan unleashed a fireball from his own staff, setting the creature ablaze. Even burning as it was, the beast did not slow in the least.

"He looks familiar, he says!"

Reaching within himself, he let loose a barrage of freezing wind at its legs. The blow succeeded in slowing the ogre down somewhat but it took another blast from Attlan's staff to stop him altogether.

"What can it hurt, he asks?!" Attlan's voice took on a note of urgency when three more of the beasts appeared from behind the nearby house.

Rolan rolled his eyes and recalled several previous events where Attlan's decisions had landed them in situations remarkably similar to their current predicament. It was likely that his friend's memory was having trouble accessing those particular moments in their past.

"No reward is worth _this_!"

"Now, Toth!" Rolan shouted.

From his position behind a tangle of brush, his friend Toth, a Daedroth from the realm of Oblivion let out a bellowing roar and leapt out to tackle one of the approaching beasts. The two giants landed in a tumble of limbs and fangs as they wrestled on the ground. Toth was the one with the advantage, however, with his thick scales, sharp talons, and mighty fangs the gator-like creature was quickly gaining the upper hand in the close quarters battle. Within seconds, the ogre was reeling from several deep gashes.

"Split up!" he called to his friend.

Immediately, Attlan sped off toward the far side of the small farm. After finding a boulder, he quickly climbed to the top. When he was in position, he leveled his staff at one of the beasts. From his own perch, Rolan readied himself. Both fired blast after blast at their respective opponents.

As powerful as they were, most of the magical attacks were shrugged off by the enraged ogres. Eyes full of wrath, Rolan's enemy reached his boulder and began to climb in chase. His staff drained of magic, Rolan discarded the instrument and drew his elven short sword. Enchanted with the power of frost, the small weapon held quite a bit of bite.

He swung at the ogre's fingers, slicing two off. Feeling the enchantment seep into its bones, the ogre pulled back its arm and stepped back from the boulder. Not ready to give up his momentum, Rolan leapt off the perch and landed squarely on the beast's shoulder. His weight managed to knock the creature down and he quickly shifted position and drove his sword deep into the ogre's chest.

Roaring in pain, his opponent swung an arm out wide and threw Rolan back several yards. Aching from the impact, Rolan quickly rose to his feet and realized that he had no weapon. With his sword still protruding from its chest, the ogre stood tall and charged toward him.

Rolan knew that no sword would help against the attack and rather than summon a weapon from Oblivion, he chose to meet force with magic. Calling forth to the forces of Destruction and Restoration. Balling up a tight fist, his muscles responded and grew to twice their normal size. Around his fist, small shards of lightning escaped his tight grasp. When the creature was close enough, he swung with all his might and let loose the massive bolt into the ogre's face.

It was his opponent's turn to be thrown back several yards. Rolan could barely believe his eyes when the creature landed, a large welt appearing on its face. Seeing the handle of his sword still sticking out, he was inspired by the lightning rods he'd seen on the chapels. Calling in what little reserves he had remaining, he shot forth another blast of lightning but directed it at the handle. Just as he hoped, the sword acted as a conductor and sent the full force of his attack deep into the monster's body. After convulsing for a few seconds, the beast finally fell silent.

From his position Rolan watched as Attlan's opponent met its doom. It was the only one left standing.

"Hungry?!" Attlan shouted as he shoved his staff into the creature's throat and fired. An instant later, the ogre's head and most of its back erupted into a million scraps of flesh as the impact blew through its back. Slowly, the beast toppled over.

Looking up at his friend in amazement, Rolan could only blink.

"Let's help the Jemane Brothers, why not?! It's the decent thing to do isn't it?" Attlan shouted at the corpse below him. Even as he taunted the body most of the gusto was taken out of the act as his foot slipped and he came crashing down to the soft and fertile dirt below.

Unable to contain himself Rolan threw his head back and burst into laughter. Either from relief at his survival or sheer madness Attlan followed in his friend's footsteps and the two of them shared their hysterics for several minutes. Exhaustion finally took him as Rolan fell backward onto the soft earth.

Seeing his staff, he reached for it and confirmed that it held no more power.

"My staff is spent," he remarked.

"They make an ointment for that, I think," Attlan mumbled.

Again, the two Bretons began laughing. After several minutes had passed Rolan found the strength to sit up. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and cringed at how much dirt and sweat was retrieved.

Attlan wasn't quite done with his complaints, however. As he took a deep breath, Rolan knew he wasn't going to enjoy the next few minutes of his live very much.

"Come, Attlan, let us help Seed-Neeus find her daughter," Attlan proclaimed in his best impression of Rolan. "We should investigate this Hackdirt! Oh look! They are murderous maniacs! A town full of them? Fancy that! Now they want to kill us! Lovely! No, madam Neeus, it was no trouble at all bringing your daughter and her damned horse back safely! Five Septims?! How generous!"

"She paid more than that!" Rolan shook his head, chuckling.

"Oh, the Countess needs help," Attlan continued. "Surely this will prove beneficial to us! Find the theif she says. Oh look, we found her! Clever that culprit for hiding her supplies in her own room! But what? We will _not_ turn her in? And what shall we receive for our generosity? Jewels? Enchanted trinkets? Weapons of unimaginable power? Of course not! A painting will do, for we need not such things!"

"Are you about finished?" Rolan could barely keep his shoulders steady as he tried not to laugh. His friend was in rare form today.

"Oh, hello Mr. Valus Odiil, sir! What's that? You've heard of us? The Two Fool Bretons? Yes sir, we _were_ thinking of making pamphlets! Help your sons, you say?! _Why not?! _What harm can there be in helping two boys on a farm?! Goblins?! You don't say? Certain death? Ha! We laugh!"

"At least you got a nice sword out of it!" Rolan reminded him.

"And now Weatherleah is free!" Attlan proclaimed with a finger raised high. He held the pose for only a moment before allowing his hand to drop to the ground once more. Both young men were physically drained from their ordeal, but Attlan's brain seemed to be working at top speed.

Rolan heard a familiar stomp of feet behind him and looked up as Toth leaned over.

"Hello, Toth," he greeted the Daedroth.

In response, Toth tilted his head in a silent query.

"No," Rolan answered, "I'm afraid there is no more killing to be done."

He closed his eyes as a drop of ogre blood fell from Toth's fangs to land on his forehead.

"Ah, thank you for that, my friend," he grumbled.

Disappointment flooded from Toth through their link and the sulky beast stomped off.

Rolan shook his head, grinning. Toth was worse than Raji when the fighting was over. The poor Daedra almost took it as an offense when their enemies lay vanquished.

"He doesn't get out of bed for less than twenty opponents?" Attlan asked mockingly.

"More than that, if I would let him," Rolan chuckled.

Using his staff as support, he hoisted himself up to his feet and surveyed the area. The smell of charred ogre stung his nostrils. There were over a dozen of the foul beasts scattered throughout the small farm of Weatherleah. They had come in waves, appearing from behind every tree, rock, and crevice. Toth had felled nearly half of them, but he and Attlan were able to claim at least seven kills between them. Rolan could hardly believe they had survived the encounter.

Attlan groaned loudly as he lifted himself to his knees.

"Ugh, barbequed ogre is definitely a delicacy I'm not eager to try!" his friend remarked as he covered his face with his sleeve.

"I had no idea there would be so many," Rolan apologized.

With a shrug, Attlan responded, "It's of no consequence. We've survived worse."

Rolan almost fell backwards at his friend's response. He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to Attlan's pendulum-like moods.

"Toth," Attlan called. "See if you can stomp out some of their teeth!"

After a quick look of confirmation from Rolan, Toth happily obliged. He all but skipped to each corpse and either stomped or punched in their skulls. Most were reduced to large gelatinous puddles, but Attlan had no qualms about reaching in and recovering his prizes.

Holding up one of the canines Attlan compared it to Toth's own.

"I don't suppose you'd be interested in selling your teeth?" Attlan asked the Daedroth.

In response, Toth tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"No, I thought not," he chuckled before patting the Daedra on the nose.

As he moved to collect the remainders Toth stayed close by, watching his actions curiously.

Rolan was amazed at how well Attlan was getting along with his companions. When they had first met his friend had been reluctant to even approach Raji. It was only after several battles together that he had even dared to address the Clanfear. This was only the third time he had even met Toth yet here he was chatting away as if they'd been friends for years. Attlan's ability to adapt never ceased to amaze him and Rolan could not help but feel a bit envious of his friend.

As his companions busied themselves with their collecting – clever Attlan thinking of that, they would fetch a nice price at the guildhall – Rolan surveyed the condition of the farm. The years of neglect had taken their toll. Although the soil appeared rich with nutrients several weeds had sprung up and would prove to be a hindrance to the two brothers upon their return. He also wondered what they would do with all the ogre corpses.

The house itself appeared rather dilapidated. From the looks of things some of the creatures had taken up residence inside and he was glad he would absent during that particular cleaning session. Several of the windows were broken and most of the roof tiles had come loose or fallen off completely. They had their work cut out for them, but this was their home after all. A few weeks hard work would go a long way to improving the place.

"The sun will be going down in a few hours!" Rolan called out. "We should be on our way unless we mean to spend the night outside the city!"

"I hear Hackdirt has a _lovely_ inn!" Attlan shot back.

Rolan rolled his eyes.

When the pair returned from their forage he dismissed Toth and he and Attlan made their way to their mounts. Urging their horses to a quick trot they managed to make the walls before the sun set. Rolan made his way to The Grey Mare to inform the Jemane Brothers of their success Attlan sped off to the guildhall to sell off their acquisitions before Angalmo closed up shop for the night. Knowing the Altmer's disposition, however, Rolan suspected no amount of haste would matter.

After a heavy handshake and promised escort the next day, Rolan bid the brothers goodnight and made his way back to the local guildhall. He was only halfway there when another of Chorrol's locals intercepted him.

"Ulfson!" a man's voice called out from behind him. "Mage Ulfson!"

Rolan turned, recognizing the peculiar title, "Brother Piner?"

"Mage Ulfson, sir, I was just at the chapel," the young monk was practically gasping with each word.

"Yes?" Rolan prompted.

"Are you alright, sir Mage?" the Brother asked as he took in Rolan's appearance.

Rolan realized he was still covered in dirt, grass, and ogre blood. Also, his robes were torn in several places from a few close calls during their liberation of Weatherleah. Attlan's wardrobe had not fared much better.

"I'm fine, Brother, I assure you. Was there something you needed?"

The young monk appeared confused for a moment but quickly regained his composure.

"In Anvil, sir! There's been an attack!"

"What?!"

"Master Loran was in mental contact with Madam Jirich in Anvil when he burst into the chapel hall shouting that she and the others had been attacked! The priests could not say more, but they closed the chapel-"

"Closed the chapel?"

"Yes, they said that the doors were to remain locked until they conferred."

What threat could force the clergy to close and lock their doors to the public – something unheard of?

"What sort of attack? Did they not say more?"

"No, sir, I'm sorry. But I know you have family in Anvil, so I came to find you as soon as I heard."

"Thank you for the information, my friend. It was considerate of you. If you will excuse me, I must get back to the guildhall!"

Without another word, Rolan ran off toward the Mages Guild chapter house and burst through the door. He made his way to the initiate's quarters and quickly began rummaging through his belongings. Laying on the bed next to his, Attlan looked at him with a sour face.

"That blasted Angalmo, he cheated me!" Attlan grumbled. "He only gave me a percentage of their worth because I made him stay open past closing! Can you believe his nerve?"

Ignoring his friend completely Rolan finally found what he was looking for. With a sigh of relief he pulled the rolled up leather mat from his bag and turned to leave.

Anvil was three days hard-ride away. That was only if he cut cross-country and encountered no obstacles. It would take far too long to reach home by conventional means. If he utilized magic, however, he could make the trip in mere minutes.

"What's that? Where are you going? Rolan?!" Attlan called.

But Rolan was already out the door and heading for the north gate. He knew it would be folly to use the item in the guildhall and he would need to put some distance between himself and the city to be certain none would sense its activation. Teleportation was not something common to the guild in Cyrodiil, but it was a tool his family had known and used for centuries. It had been some time since he had actually harnessed the craft, however, and he wanted to be sure there was enough open area to not put others in danger. The woods to the west would do.

When he finally found a clearing with enough room to work, he unrolled the mat onto the ground and weighed the corners down with a few rocks he found nearby. The last thing he needed was for a stray breeze to flip the thing upside down!

After he was satisfied the mat would remain in place, he stepped into the circle in the center and ripped loose the bracer hidden on his upper arm. Etched into the leather mat, mostly in gold markings, were runes and glyphs of ancient design. He could not translate all the markings, but most he knew by heart. They enabled the user to link the circle across vast distances to another marker of equal design. Normally the markers were supposed to remain fixed to their location, but his family had learned to make theirs more mobile. His destination marker, however, was fixed in his bedroom back at his family's home in Anvil which made things slightly more secure.

Whispering the incantations to activate the transport, he closed his eyes and focused on the magic. Slowly he felt his feet begin to tingle. The sensation crept up his legs until it filled his entire body. Seconds later, he felt as if the world were spinning rapidly and it took all his control to stay focused on his destination.

Suddenly, it was over, and he found himself in familiar surroundings. Without hesitation, he rushed through his bedroom door and ran down the stairs to the foyer of his family home. Huddled together, sobbing heavily were his two younger brothers.

"Alistar!" Rolan called out to the elder one. "Where are father and mother?!"

Startled by his sudden appearance, his younger brother only stared.

"Rolan?" he asked in a shaky voice. His youngest brother held on all the more tightly.

"Alistar," Rolan grabbed his brother by the shoulders, "where are they?"

"A-at the chapel," he mumbled between sobs. "With the others."

Needing no more information, he sped out the door and down the street toward the chapel district. All around him the townspeople were running in all directions, some had fallen in tears and were praying to the Divines. City Watchmen were running toward the chapel, some dressed in civilian attire with only their helmets and gauntlets. He could hear the sounds of battle raging from the south eastern part of the city.

So there _was_ an attack?

He heard someone shout his name over the cries of the crowd and shouts of the guards. Turning, he saw Carahil, a female Altmer, mage, and friend of the family running towards him.

"Rolan! Is that really you? Were you injured?"

Looking down he realized he had not changed his clothes since returning to Chorrol.

"I am fine," he answered hastily. "These are not from my injuries."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yes, I assure you. Carahil, where are my parents?" he pleaded.

"Your father's fighting by the chapel with Azrael and Traven, but your mother was injured in the attack!" she informed him.

"Is she alright?"

"We are going there now to help, come with us!" she motioned to two other mages – initiates such as himself from what he could see in their robes.

With a quick nod, he fell in line behind her and the group sped off toward the chapel. When he arrived, Rolan could not believe his eyes.

A large number of figures garbed in golden armor were pouring out of the chapel. He could feel that they were not from the mortal realm because they had the stink of Daedra on them. Even from his distance his abilities could tell him as much.

Several guards lay dead on the street along with some of the townspeople and barely a handful of the Daedra. As more City Watchmen arrived on the scene they clashed with the creatures. Swords met axe as the Daedra swung their mighty weapons.

In the middle of the fray, an old Imperial man stood ignored by friend and foe alike, shouting madness into the air.

Desperately he searched the crowd for signs of his father and mother. Finally, he found them on the far side of the plaza near the southern gate. His mother lay on the ground nursing a wound on her side, and his father stood only feet away, fending off the creatures with blasts of Destruction magic in conjunction with his Xivilai companion Maxil. Alongside his father was Hannibal Traven, and Rolan was impressed by the strength of the spells he was casting as he seemed to fell one of the Daedra after another. Standing with them was a Dunmer man swinging what looked like one of the fallen guard's weapons and beside him his younger sister Sylfie was unleashing her own magical attacks. They were all fighting furiously, trying to protect his fallen mother from harm.

"Rolan, we have to cut a path to the Hallmaster!" Carahil called out.

Shaking himself, Rolan focused on his task. He reached in and called forth the full force of his magic resources.

Following Carahil's lead, the three initiates fired forth blasts of Destruction magic toward a cluster of the Daedra. Fire, frost, and lightning struck true and at least one of the creatures fell to their blasts.

"They're absorbing the lightning! Fire and frost only!" she instructed.

Focusing his attack once more, Rolan let loose another volley in sync with the others and they watched with glee as four more of the creatures fell.

"Good, now follow me!" the Altmer woman shouted as she ran straight into the path they had created.

Dodging several attacks from the creatures, Rolan and the other two initiates followed close behind. As they came near, Rolan's father caught sight of him.

"Rolan!" he shouted. "Call Toth!"

Of course! Rolan chastised himself for not thinking of summoning his friend sooner. With his enchanted bracer gone, calling his friend from Oblivion was a simple task. Nevertheless, his two initiate companions gawked as the Daedroth burst forth in a puff of smoke that reeked of sulfur.

He noticed as Carahil wrinkled her nose at the sight of him.

Letting loose a mighty roar, Toth dove head first into the battle and tackled two of the slightly smaller Daedra. He bit deep into one of them and actually pierced the strange armor. With a vicious shake of his head, he dislodged its leg and sent the rest of the body clattering to the floor several yards away. Through their link, Rolan could feel his friend's joy at being summoned to fight twice in one day.

But his thoughts were not on his companion's happiness, instead they were focused on his mother's figure lying on the street.

"Mother!" he shouted. "Are you alright? How bad is it?"

"I'm fine, Rolan, help your father!" Syrah Ulfson bade her son.

"Rolan?!" Sylfie smiled ear to ear at the sight of him.

"With me, son!" Radaam Ulfson called behind his shoulder.

"Mages, rally!" Master Traven instructed to them.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, the seven mages plus the male Dunmer fell in line.

"Frost wall!" Traven shouted.

As one, the group shot forth an area effect spell of Frost.

Six of the Daedra fell.

"Flaming orbs!" the Master instructed.

Working in unison once more, they picked their targets and let off a barrage of fire. Standing next to his father, Maxil followed along with them.

Nine more creatures fell to the magical blasts. Only eleven more of the Daedra remained. Five of them were engaged with the City Watch with Toth quickly closing in and the rest were charging straight for their group.

"Center two! Absorbing attack!"

All but the Dunmer let loose a draining spell which sucked the very life-force from the two creatures in the center of the charging group. They fell within seconds.

"Repel!"

The group of mages focused for a moment before unleashing a burst of telekinesis. The impact sent the remaining four Daedra flying back to their point of origin.

"Pair off and attack!" Traven shouted, drawing forth his dagger.

Rolan drew his sword and charged toward one of the creatures beside his father. Radaam summoned forth a Daedric claymore from Oblivion and swung at their target. Already on its feet, the golden creature met his father's attack with its heavy axe.

"Filthy Auroran, bastards!" Radaam shouted.

Utilizing the moment, Rolan stepped under their straining arms and drove his sword between a crease in the armor. He smiled as the frost enchantment did its work and the creature pulled back as it cried out in pain.

Again Radaam swung his weapon and this time the force of the impact jarred loose the creature's axe. As it clattered harmlessly to the ground, Rolan charged in once again and stabbed the Daedra in the throat. After thrusting his blade in deep he swung it out wide and cut a deep gash through most of its throat. The creature died soon after.

They looked around them and saw the other Aurorans had fallen to their comrades. Only two of them remained but they were in no condition to threaten anyone.

Roaring with glee, Toth held both Aurorans by their necks and was happily slamming the pair into the chapel stonework one after another. The Daedra lay mostly prone in his might hands and it was obvious there was little life left in them.

When they finally did die, Toth tossed the bodies onto the street in disgust and immediately began to sulk. Rolan quickly dismissed his friend, realizing that it was best with so many witnesses on hand.

The bodies landed near the feet of the maniac Imperial, who had not moved or stopped shouting his insanity since Rolan had arrived. He finally did cease speaking only to cackle crazily at the heavens.

So intent was Rolan on the bizarre man he jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He relaxed when he turned to see Radaam's grateful face.

"You did well, son," his father said. "I am very proud of you."

"Thank you, father," Rolan croaked. It was difficult to keep the tears out of his eyes.

"Rolan!" Sylfie cheered with joy as she enveloped him in a rather forceful hug.

"It's good to see you again, little sister," he grinned. Little indeed, Rolan thought. His sister was two years younger than he, but in the four years that he had been gone she had sprouted and matured considerably. Now at seventeen years she looked nothing like he remembered her. He could not even believe he was related to the beautiful young woman who seemed more like a clone of his mother.

And she had been using magic? Sylfie had never shown an interest in the arcane arts, but from their physical contact he could sense the magic inside her and was astounded at how powerful a mage she was. It was likely that she could match or even exceed his own skills in Destruction, but he could also feel her connection to Conjuration was nowhere as strong as his own. His father had told him that the women in their family were rarely gifted with their power in the craft.

"Hold still, Syrah," Traven bade.

They immediately turned to attend his mother.

"Syrah," Radaam dropped to one knee as Traven continued to heal her wound, "are you alright, my love?"

"I'm fine, dearest," his mother smiled as she clasped Radaam's hand. "Rolan, you've gotten so big and what have you done to your clothes?!"

Rolan sighed, typical of his mother to ignore her own situation so that she could embarrass him in public. He cringed internally as he realized the other two initiates were chuckling at him. Sylfie furthered his embarrassment by chuckling and elbowing his ribs.

"You two, go and see if they guards need healing," Traven instructed the giggling pair of initiates.

The sped off immediately to assist the City Watch as they tended the wounds of their associates, and Rolan silently wished he could command his sister to do the same. He could hear Carahil speaking to the Dunmer man, Azrael he believed she called him, somewhere behind them. Some of the City Watchmen were trying to keep the crowd which had quickly formed back from the chapel district.

Traven finished his work and helped Syrah up to her feet. Her dress, which Rolan recognized as the one she often wore to evening services at the chapel of Dibella, was torn and bloodied where her wound had been. Now, not even a trace of a scar showed on her skin. Briefly he wondered if his skills in Restoration would ever come close to Master Traven's.

"Azrael," Radaam called to the male Dunmer. "Thank you, sir, for saving my wife."

"It was mere circumstance that I was on my doorstep when the attack occurred, good sir Ulfson," Azrael bowed, respectfully. "I did nothing more than any other citizen would have."

"Many_other citizens_ ran away, dear Mer," Syrah smiled. "Once again, you have gone above the call of civic duty."

The Dunmer smiled back but gave no more argument. It was difficult to disagree with his mother when she smiled that way.

"What happened here?" Rolan finally asked.

They looked to each other but were silent.

"We are uncertain where they came from," Traven finally spoke, "but the Aurorans appeared in the chapel just before evening services and slew all who were inside."

"Lady Jirich?"

In response, Traven only shook his head.

"We heard the screams and came running, but did not arrive in time to save any of them," Radaam lamented.

Clasping his father's arm in comfort, Syrah added, "It was sheer luck that services had not yet begun, or there may have been many more deaths."

They all turned at the sound of retching and saw one of the Watchmen down on all fours emptying his supper onto the steps of the chapel. Beside him another man in uniform was leaning heavily against the open door to the church looking as if he were about to do the same.

Syrah let out a small cry and covered her mouth with a dainty hand as she wept. Sylfie buried her face in Rolan's dirty robes. All of them whispered a silent prayer for the lives lost.

"You should get her home," Traven whispered to his father. "She still needs rest to recover fully."

Radaam nodded and ushered his family toward their home. Several of the guards nodded their thanks to the group as they made their way past. Rolan noticed Azrael had moved toward the chapel and was speaking with the Captain of the watch. The Dunmer also kept looking back at the crazy Imperial man who had been silent since the battle had ended. Instead he was staring intently at the Mer.

Deciding it best not to involve himself, Rolan cradled his sister's shivering form in his arms.

"What have you been getting into?" his father asked him when they had finally settled things down at home. Syrah and his siblings were in bed and Radaam was pouring them a cup of tea as they sat in the kitchen. Rolan remembered that night when he had first stated his intentions to leave home and study with the Guild. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Pardon?" he asked.

In response his father pointed to his attire.

Suddenly understanding, Rolan sat up in his chair, "Ah! Yes…"

He found himself at a loss for words as he debated whether to tell his father the truth or some harmless bit of fiction.

"Yes?" his father prompted.

"Well… that is," Rolan stammered.

Why could he not think?!

Chuckling softly, his father took a seat across the table.

"Calm yourself, Rolan," he said. "You need not explain, a man is entitled to his secrets, after all."

If someone had told him he could fit an entire nest of Cliff Racers in his mouth, Rolan would have believed them as his jaw all but hit the table. Was this the same man he had known?

"Your mother was right," Radaam continued. "You _have_ grown. Grown in to a fine young man."

Not sure what to make of his father's words, Rolan focused on sipping his tea. It was a tasty blend, made from his father's own combinations.

"Will you stay the night, then?"

Still finding it difficult to formulate the theories of the spoken word, Rolan only nodded and tugged at his clothing.

"Yes, a bath and a change of clothes will do you good. Although you may find your old clothes to be a bit constrictive."

Of course. His clothing was over four years old. Apparently he had grown in that time. He was bigger now and smaller things don't fit bigger people.

"You seem to be about my height-"

Rolan almost choked at the proclamation.

"-and I think I may have a few things you could try. I shall bring you a selection so you may choose what suits you best. We can have your clothes sent for cleaning and hemming, although I am fairly certain your mother may insist on doing so herself in the morning."

It was strange to hear his father speaking this way. In the time he had been away they had communicated through telepathy – another skill inherent to his family – but their conversations had always been fairly dry and uninformative. Usually Rolan spent their time assuring his father of his safety and progression through his studies. But his father's tone had always been the same as when he was a child. Now… now it was something altogether different. Was there… pride in his voice?

His father was speaking to him as an equal and he couldn't help but be unnerved at the unfamiliarity of the situation.

They spent the next hour sipping their tea in silence. The whole time, Radaam was smiling. Breakfast the next morning was no less uncomfortable.

"And_boom_ the Auroran flew back and never got up again!" Sylfie related the tale of the previous night to their younger siblings – who's eyes had become saucers as she spoke.

"Did father kill one to?" Alistar asked with reverence.

"One?" Sylfie proclaimed. "He dropped ten all on his own!"

"Sylfie," Radaam complained.

"You beat the bad Daedra, father?" Halan, Rolan's youngest brother, asked.

His father sighed heavily before answering, "Not alone, Halan. The other mages and the City Watch were there to help. Plus, your brother Rolan was of great help as well."

"Ohhhh," Sylfie exclaimed, "you should have seen him! He cut one of their heads clean off with his sword!"

Rolan coughed violently as his toast almost went down the wrong gullet.

"You cut his head off, Rolan?! Was there blood?" Alistar asked intently. Halan's mouth fell open as the image formed in his mind.

"No… I mean, yes… but no I didn't cut…" he stammered before covering his face with his hands and groaning deeply.

"Can I have your sword?" Alistar eagerly asked.

"What?" Rolan gawked at his younger sibling.

He heard his mother giggling softly. Radaam was trying to hide his widening smile behind his hand.

Sylfie elbowed him in the ribs and chided, "You're being far too modest, big brother! You were fantastic last night. I don't know how you were able to stand against those Daedra. I was terrified the whole time, but you weren't frightened in the slightest," she finished in a whisper.

They all quieted down for a moment.

It was his father that broke their silence, "Well, I am glad you were there, son. It is good to see your time in the Guild has proven beneficial."

Halan bounced in his chair as he demanded, "Show us some magic, Rolan! Show us some magic, then!"

Rolan wondered if their meal would ever be over.

Later that afternoon, as he prepared to teleport back to Chorrol, Rolan found himself in familiar territory at last.

"You should visit more often," Sylfie complained as she hugged him tightly.

One by one he bid farewell to his family before stepping onto the circle. Just as he was about to activate the transport, his mother stepped forward and handed him a small basket.

Wiping a tear from her eye she explained, "Just some muffins I baked for you and your friend."

Smiling his thanks, Rolan refocused and activated the teleportation. Seconds later he was looking around the small clearing in the woods just west of Chorrol.

"It's about time," Attlan surprised him.

"How did you find me?"

His friend rolled his eyes, "Please, Rolan. As if you could hide from me. Although Master Litte was curious to know your whereabouts after you missed morning classes."

Rolan stumbled. He had missed his morning courses!

"Don't worry, I made something up, and he dropped the issue. Let's go, then, the Jemane Brothers are eager to be escorted back to Weatherleah," Attlan said and reached for the basket. He smiled greedily when he discovered the contents and quickly began devouring one of the muffins.

Rolan relaxed visibly when he heard Attlan's words. As his friend began walking back towards the city walls, Rolan could not help but wonder how Attlan had managed to explain away his absence.

"Wait," Rolan called as he gathered up the teleportation mat, "what exactly did you tell him?"

"Oh nothing much," the older Breton yelled over his shoulder. "I just said that you were having a horrendous case of diarrhea and you'd thought it best to spend the night in the woods."

"You said WHAT?!" Rolan shouted. He fully intended to throttle his friend but when he turned all he saw was Attlan's form running at top speed toward the city gate.

"Don't worry, Rolan! The rest of the guildhall sympathized with your condition! I doubt you'll face any reprimands!" Attlan cried out as he ran.

"Attlan!" Rolan shouted once more and began chasing after his soon-to-be-deceased friend.


	5. Chapter 5: Unexpected Inquiries

**Chapter 5: Unexpected Inquiries**

"Certainly not, kind sir! I am here but to clean your chambers," Attlan proclaimed, in a raspy but high-pitched voice.

It was not yet mid-day on their road to Skingrad as Rolan rubbed his eyes as he felt the beginnings of what was sure to be an impressive headache coming.

His friend continued, voice altering to resemble a deep resounding baritone, "Is that all you have come here for, little one? My chambers?"

Still rubbing his eyes, Rolan began to shake his head. It had been a long journey from Chorrol. Rolan had actually suggested they cut through the wilderness on their way to their next apprenticeship, but Attlan had overridden the idea. His friend had actually been looking forward to an uneventful trip claiming to have had his fill of adventure while they were in Chorrol. Taken aback at the statement, Rolan had agreed to take the longer path.

"I have no idea what it is you imply, master," Attlan's voice switched back to the feminine. "I am but a poor Argonian maid."

Luckily the weather had been more than amiable. However, even the cool breeze lapping gently at his face did little to dissuade the rising thunder in his head. Enduring his bored friend's determined torment had not been easy.

"Halt!" a strange voice startled both Breton initiates as they brought their horses to a standstill.

They both watched as a rather large Khajiit male dressed in impressive armor stepped out from behind a large boulder beside the road. With a large Ebony axe in hand he strode onto the path before them and stood with his legs wide. From the look of him the feline knew how to use the weapon.

Rolan cursed himself for packing his sword up the night before. They had been warned of Highwaymen on the roads to Skingrad and he should have been more prepared.

"Your money, or your lives," the Khajiit declared.

As he looked over to Attlan he saw his friend showing no signs of concern. Rather, the young mage's face resembled someone who had been given a dirty goblet at an eatery. Briefly Rolan wondered what was annoying his friend more: that they were being robbed or that his one-man performance had been interrupted. He groaned inward as he realized they were not likely to be walking away from this quite so easily.

His companion let out a mighty sigh and shook his head before speaking. Of course, as soon as he did, Rolan felt his headache arrive in full-force.

"Very well," he said, "you have provided the ultimatum within the guidelines."

Attlan reached to his coin-purse and made as if he were going to retrieve it for the thief.

"If you would be so kind as to present your ITL for proper inspection, we can complete the transaction," Rolan's madness-ridden friend finished.

With each beat of his pulse, Rolan felt his head pounding. Oddly, his heartbeat was not racing as it should be. Rather it was beating at a slow and steady pace. Could it be that he was actually becoming_ accustomed_ to his friend's insanity?

"Eh… what?" the Khajiit stammered.

Attlan paused mid-motion.

"Your Independent Thievery License?" Attlan stated as if it were the most obvious statement in the world.

Rolan wondered if his bloated arteries were visible on his forehead.

"Eh…_ what?_" the thief repeated, obviously confused.

Attlan looked over to Rolan and appeared as if he were about to fall off his horse.

"He doesn't have an authorized ITL!" his friend, who should have been committed long ago, declared and threw up his arms in exasperation.

Attlan looked over at the Highwayman and all but laughed as he spoke, "Do you mean to tell me that you _not_ a licensed member of the Bandits Guild? That you are actually trying to rob us _without_ authorization?"

"Authori-?_ This_ is my authorization!" their opponent emphasized by lifting his axe high in the air and wove it around menacingly.

"Yes, yes," Attlan sighed in an exasperated tone, "you have a big and shiny axe. Very impressive, but I'm afraid that by operating without authorization you are, in fact, robbing us _illegally_!"

The Khajiit slowly lowered his axe as Attlan spoke. By the time he was finished the statement, the poor bandit's face was twisted into pure perplexity. He looked to his axe once more before turning back to Attlan.

"_Illegal_ robbery?"

Again Attlan sighed and spoke as if he were addressing a child, "You're not from here, are you?"

"N-no," he stammered. "I crossed the border from Elsweyr two days ago."

"Ahh, now I see," Attlan nodded. "You see, good thief, sir, you are now within the realm of the Empire. Under Imperial rule things are somewhat more… civilized and… structured."

The Khajiit nodded, his mouth wide open.

Rolan rubbed his temples.

"The Empire understands that there are moments within an individual's life where more _direct_ measures are required to earn an income. However, if any man with an axe were to run around demanding the money of any passerby, then we would have chaos on hand! Henceforth the Bandits Guild was created to facilitate the needs of the 'lesser privileged' members of society to supplement their regular wages."

The Khajiit continued to nod with Attlan's every word and he stared at the animated Breton with awe.

"As a member of the Bandits Guild you are granted, after a period instruction, the right to utilize the citizens of the Empire as external sources of income. You may make arrangements with specific individuals to garnish their own wages on a regular basis or obtain an Independent Thievery License and lay claim to a particular region. With said license you are thusly and _legally_ allowed to provide travelers with the option to hand over their valuables," he gestured to his coin-purse, "or to engage in hostile conflict after which the victor is guaranteed the spoils of either party."

The perplexed creature looked to Rolan but the young man only stared back at him with a blank expression and a raised eyebrow.

"To risk the wrath of the Bandits Guild with such unauthorized activity," Attlan appeared at a loss for words. "Well, I'm just glad I'm not in _your_ shoes, friend!"

As Rolan looked through his satchel for a potion to help alleviate his throbbing skull the Khajiit ignored him completely, so fixed was he on his friend. Rolan considered attacking the thief by surprise, but decided against it.

"There are taxation issues, regional agreements, third-party contractors-"

"But, wait!" the Khajiit stopped his friend. "I have stolen from four others, and none of them said anything about this!"

Both Bretons froze in place and looked to each other. Rolan raised his eyebrows curious how Attlan was going to talk his way out of that statement. In response, however, his quick-thinking friend merely took on a pained look before speaking once more.

"When you appeared before them, did they stand in place much like we did?"

"Yes."

"Were they upset?" he asked.

"Yes."

"By chance, did they appear as if they were outraged?"

The Khajiit thought before nodding.

"Did they use profanity?"

"Some did, yes."

"Chances are, then, that they were awaiting visual confirmation of your proper credentials," Attlan explained. "And after receiving none were too outraged to explain the circumstances. It's likely they reported you to the local chapter of the Bandits Guild. It is my guess that your axe may have frightened them unduly."

The Khajiit's eyes widened at the explanation as he hid the axe behind him and looked around bashfully.

"There may be forthcoming consequences, my friend," Attlan said with dread.

"B-but… I didn't know!" the bandit exclaimed.

"Well, of course, _I_ understand that," Attlan consoled. "Others, however… well, look at my companion's reaction to all this. He is beside himself with the lack of professionalism."

"Don't bring me into your madness," Rolan said as he took a deep swallow from a bottle of wine they had procured before leaving Chorrol. He could not find any potions, but perhaps a drunken stupor would allow him to endure before his head split in two.

"He has delicate sensibilities," Attlan shrugged off his response.

The Khajiit nodded in sympathy.

"What am I to do, then?" the highwayman asked, his voice full of concern.

"The best advice I can give you is to proceed to the Imperial City, proclaim your ignorance of the law and explain your recent activities to the Imperial Legion Office. Then they can direct you to the main Bandits Guild chapter so that you may submit your application. With a little luck, perhaps you can avoid any undesirable situations."

Again the thief nodded.

Rolan gulped down half the bottle before he wiped his mouth with his sleeve as a few drops of the life-saving elixir threatened to spill down his chin. This Tamika made excellent wine. He had to be sure to send a few bottles to his parents when they arrived in Skingrad.

Their conversation at its end, the group separated and headed in different directions. The would-be Bandit Guild member headed east toward the Imperial City, but the two Bretons continued westward. Before they had made it three steps, however, Attlan turned to the Khajiit and called him back.

"These people you robbed before," he asked, "were they heading to Skingrad, by chance?"

"Yes, they were," the Khajiit nodded.

"Ah, that is our destination as well!" he exclaimed cheerily. "If you would like, we could return half of their belongings and try to explain things."

"Half?"

"Yes, you will need to present the remainder to the Legion so that they will understand you at least attempted to make amends for your actions. Chances are word of your behavior has already reached Imperial City ears."

"Ah, I see," he nodded, apparently too confused to argue.

Without further prompting he began handing over half the items with descriptions of the owners. Attlan nodded, pretending to listen intently to the identities. Once their transaction was complete, they all continued on their way.

After an hour of travel, and no sign of an enraged Khajiit swinging a big axe overhead, Rolan turned to his friend with a sour look. Attlan was too busy looking through the small bundle he had acquired with the giddiness of a school child on the morning of Winder Solstice to notice him.

"What's this?" Attlan asked as he drew a rather worn tome from the bundle.

"It appears to be a book."

"Brilliant deduction, my dear Rolan," his friend replied as he tossed the book to Rolan. "See if there's anything interesting in it."

After fumbling with the item Rolan flipped through the pages, skimming the contents. His eyes widening in shock, he cried out, "There's a spell in here for creating zombies!"

"Really?!" Attlan stopped his examination and started at his companion.

"No," Rolan answered calmly.

After a moment of blissful silence, Attlan declared, "You're an evil man. You know that, don't you? Evil and petty."

Chuckling softly, Rolan continued to skim the contents. When he was done, he closed the book and shrugged.

"Just a private journal with a collection of rather unimpressive potions. Except one," he told Attlan.

"One?"

"Have you ever heard of Nirnroot?" Rolan asked.

Attlan thought a moment before shaking his head, "No, that's a new one to me."

"I have never heard tell of it either," he admitted.

"Maybe Sinderion will be interested in it," Attlan shrugged.

"Who?"

His friend explained, "Some crazy Altmer Angalmo told me about. He's not a member of the Guild but is extremely knowledgeable in the ways of Alchemy. The two had dealings in the past and Angalmo told me if I came across any ingredients in bulk then Sinderion might be interested in them."

"Hopefully he will prove to be more amiable than our other Altmer friend," Rolan grumbled. Angalmo had given them a terrible price on the ogre's teeth they had sold him several months back. Rolan had never really liked the ill-tempered Altmer in the past, but after that incident his disposition toward the other mage had fallen significantly.

Attlan only laughed.

"I am beginning to believe the stereotypes we have heard about Altmer," Rolan said as he shook his head.

"Ah, you insult my people, you villainous cur!" Attlan exclaimed – but his voice had only humor in it.

Rolan turned to his friend of nearly three years and gawked.

"What did you say?" he gasped.

Busy counting coins, Attlan said absentmindedly, "I'm half-Altmer. I told you that."

"No, you did not!"

"I'm sure I did, at some point," Attlan looked up at his friend.

"You said your family was Breton."

"Yes, my father's family _is_," he nodded, "but my mother was Altmer. Haven't we had this discussion before?"

Rolan shook his head, vehemently, "No! You have hardly told me anything of your past or your family."

"Oh," Attlan's eyebrows rose slightly. "I thought I had already."

Rolan rolled his eyes.

"Well, my mother died when I was very young, so I never really knew her. My father and his family raised me on their small farm in Skyrim. Of course, most of them were also raised in the Nordic regions along with their customs."

"They did not appreciate your skills with magic," Rolan said. He remembered Attlan confessing as much to him long ago on their road to Bruma. With both Altmer and Breton blood in his veins, however… just how connected to magic _was_ his friend?

Attlan nodded, "My father encouraged me, of course, as any good father would. Plus he said by exploring my natural talents it would, undoubtedly bring me closer to my mother. So it didn't bother him much when I began to show signs of skill. But my uncles and cousins always treated me with a degree of contempt, along with the other farm hands. When I turned fourteen I told my father I was leaving home to join the Mages Guild."

"It must have been difficult for you," Rolan reasoned.

Attlan looked to him with an eyebrow raised.

"Having the desire to walk away from that environment," he explained, "but also feeling the loss of the one person who supported you throughout the years."

His friend nodded but looked away.

"Well," he said after a minute, "more than a few of them were glad to see me go and I was glad to leave them. There's nothing left for me back there anymore."

"You still have your father," Rolan began to say but Attlan shook his head.

"No," he whispered, "there's _nothing_ for me there anymore."

Rolan studied his friend's face closely. He could see there was more to the story but it was obvious Attlan was not yet prepared to speak it aloud. The young man could be beyond verbose at times, but there were also times, such as now, when he was pensive and quiet. Rolan was not about to press the subject, however. His friend would tell him all there was to know in time.

"Growing up with your family secret couldn't have been much fun either," Attlan said, as he wiped a tear from his cheek.

Rolan smiled at his friend's intuitive mind.

"It is difficult when you are a child," he admitted. "The concept of secrets is not one that comes naturally to a young mind."

"It's definitely a construct of adults," Attlan nodded.

Rolan nodded back, "We were all encouraged to explore our abilities, but only within the confines of our home. It was rare that I was allowed to play with others my own age when I was a child. My father was always worried I might summon forth a scamp out of spite."

"Something a three-year-old shouldn't be able to do," Attlan smiled.

"Indeed," he agreed. "When my sister was born I thought that my loneliness had come to an end. However, as it turns out, only a small percentage of the women in my family are born with my inherent abilities. Since she was _normal_, Sylfie was allowed to spend time with other children without restriction. I spent most of my youth watching her enjoy her own."

"But you had friends of a different kind."

Rolan grinned, "Yes, I suppose so. Raji was just a hatchling when I first summoned her. She was so small, but no less vicious than she is now."

"Love at first sight?"

Rolan shook his head slowly, "Oh, certainly not! She bit several times before going to hide under my bed."

The two of them laughed.

"It took some time, but eventually she saw me as a friend and not a threat. We would spend hours together playing fetch or some other ridiculous game."

"That seems a bit beneath her."

"She certainly seemed to think so at first. But her natural instinct is to chase running prey, so it was not long before she took to the game," Rolan chuckled.

Attlan pondered a moment before asking, "How long can you keep her in our realm?"

"Hm," Rolan thought, "I am not entirely certain. In the past I never kept her here longer than a day or two."

"A_day or two_?!" it was Attlan's turn to be amazed. "I've seen you with her for an hour or so at a time, but I had no idea… Rolan, not even the Masters can keep a creature from Oblivion in our world for more than a few minutes. At least, not without binding them."

"My blood-" Rolan started to explain, but stopped himself. There were still some secrets he could not reveal. All he did was shrug.

Nodding in understanding, Attlan dropped the matter. In typical Attlan form, however, as soon as he ceased inquiry into one sensitive subject, his friend switched to a much more uncomfortable one.

"So," his friend asked, eyes full of innocence. "You have a younger sister?"

Rolan's eyes almost flew out of his head. He felt the pit of his stomach tie into a dense knot.

"How_ much_ younger is she?"

"She's two years old," Rolan lied… poorly.

"Ah, so your youth spent watching her play with other children was… a fairytale?"

He closed his eyes tightly and felt his headache returning.

With a grin that nearly split his face in two, Attlan continued his inquisition, "Is she… attractive?"

"She is going bald apparently, and has developed several warts on her over-sized nose, but her buckteeth are coming in nicely," Rolan nodded assertively.

Attlan nodded along, "I've always been a fan of women with _character_."

Rolan shook his head and rubbed his temples.

"You don't suppose… she would find me… of interest?"

Turning to look at his friend, Rolan was once again reminded of how attractive the older half-Breton was. Attlan's features had wrought him with no shortage of female company during all their time together. Rolan suspected his friend's looks had been his savior on more than one occasion.

He turned and stared straight ahead before replying with a quick, "No."

Attlan only laughed.

"Does she have blue eyes too?"

"She was born without eyes."

"A blue-eyed Breton girl," Attlan said with a voice of awe.

They rode on in relative silence for several more miles before Attlan spoke up again. The young man could be relentless in his tirades.

"You know," he suggested, "we _could_ head straight for Anvil. Then come back this way through Kvatch and Skingrad on our way to the Imperial City."

As the pounding in his head flared once more, Rolan only shook his head.

"It would be lovely, wouldn't it? I could meet your family, and your sister could meet me," he finished in a whisper.

"Attlan," Rolan warned.

"I would be a perfect gentleman, of course," Attlan's voice was full of feigned innocence. "Open doors, and hold her chair for her."

Without another word Rolan steered his mount closer to Attlan's. When his friend was in range, Rolan reached over and grabbed the taller young man by the collar and drew him in close. Only inches from his face, Rolan gave Attlan a deadly look.

"Kidding," Attlan chuckled nervously before swallowing hard. "Just kidding, of course,"

Rolan held their pose for a moment longer before releasing his friend. The two of them continued on as Attlan whistled nervously.

As they rode, Rolan began to foolishly believe that his friend had finally ceased his incessant tormenting. Foolishly, of course.

Suddenly, Attlan cleared his throat loudly and began speaking in a raspy but high-pitched voice, "I have no idea what it is you imply, master. I am but a poor Argonian maid."

Rolan slumped forward in his saddle in defeat. He thought he might actually begin to cry.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I figured it was about time to develop our two hero's characters a bit. It's been some time since the two just talked that I wanted to use this chapter for mostly dialog. Oh and three cheers for all lusty Argonian maids the world round!


	6. Chapter 6: A Minor Complaint

**Chapter 6: A Minor Complaint**

"Attlan, get down!" Parwen, a female Bosmer, archer, and member of the Skingrad Fighters Guild, shouted as she unleashed a deadly barrage of arrows past him.

Attlan reacted quickly enough to the warning and dove to his left, rolling for several feet before rising again, staff and short sword at the ready. With a few quick steps, Rolan covered the distance between them and stood back-to-back with his friend, his own sword and staff held before him.

They were quickly becoming surrounded. The Sharptooth goblins of Derelict Mine were coming at them with their full fury. Nearly thirty of their clan lay dead or dying already, but there seemed to be no end to their numbers as they poured out of every passage, doorway, and side chamber. Rolan was beginning to feel a sense of deja-vu.

"Where in Oblivion are they all coming from?!" Attlan shouted as he fired blast after blast from his lightning staff. One of the creatures dodged his attacks and leapt forward with its blade high. Attlan barely managed to raise his sword in time to intercept the strike. With a sweep of his staff, he managed to hit the beast across its right temple and send it sprawling backwards.

"They must have been amassing a warparty!" Parwen shouted over the roar of magical attacks and shrieking cries of the goblins. Not for a moment did she cease her rain of death.

"We must find their Shaman leader!" Rolan called out. Two of the fearsome beasts landed before him with the obvious intention of striking in unison. He prepared his defense as best he could, but knew his chances of escaping injury were slim. Unfortunately for the two goblins, so intent were they on striking him that they did not see the charging Daedroth sweep them both in its arms only to throw them clear across the chamber and into a group of their brethren.

Toth roared in delight even as he trickled blood from nearly a dozen wounds. He reared back and let loose a blast of fire, igniting the tumbling goblins in flame. They ran in circles for several moments before collapsing into a pile of charred flesh. Through their link, Rolan could feel Toth's sheer elation at the battle which was quickly threatening to overcome them. Apparently the thought of victory was not of any concern to the Daedric creature, his only intention was to kill as many of their enemies as possible.

Of course, Rolan was still hoping they might escape this encounter with their lives. However, with his magical reserves quickly running low and his supply of filled soulgems thinning dangerously, he was not entirely convinced of that probability. He quickly began lamenting ever being talked into their little "adventure," as Attlan had put it.

It was initially intended as a training exercise for two of Skingrad's newest additions to the Fighters Guild's local chapter. While the young warriors had gone through extensive training amongst the instructors neither had experienced true combat. Derelict Mine had been known by many throughout the county of Skingrad as a den to the Sharptooth goblin tribe. Travelers on the road east of the city were always warned to take care due to the danger of attack from the creatures. It wasn't until recently, however, that Count Hassildor had lain a bounty on the head of the Shaman.

Seeing the opportunity, the local Hallmaster had decided to utilize the situation and had dispatched Parwen, a mid-ranking member, along with two younger members to collect on the contract. As chance had it, Parwen was Attlan's latest bedmate and his ever ambitious friend had managed to include the two of them into the endeavor. A joint-Guild operation he had called it citing the expedition as a chance to improve the Mages Guild's public image, and Adrienne Berene, their own local Hallmaster, had agreed to the venture. Once again, Attlan's silver tongue had landed them in the middle of trouble.

The first chambers they explored, while containing a significant presence of the goblins, were easily within their abilities. Once they descended into the second level of the caverns, however, they began to encounter greater resistance. Only minutes after entering the third level of the cave system, Ulas, a young Nord, had been killed when a cluster of the beasts had surprised them. Eilam, an Imperial no older than seventeen, had been seriously injured when the second wave hit them. He was now lying nearby desperately trying to use his limited Restoration abilities to seal the wound which might soon claim his own life.

Parwen had been furious at the poor quality of intelligence they had been given. The mine, while known to house the tribe's Shaman, was supposed to contain a much smaller group of goblins. Scouts claimed there were only around twenty of the beasts within. Had they known nearly a hundred of the bastards were waiting for them, she likely would have requested the entire membership of the Guild to participate. As it was, they had already lost one of their trainees and chances were the second would not survive their encounter.

Rolan was still wondering if he and Attlan would fare much better.

"Rolan!" Attlan shouted as he fell backward.

Reacting almost instantly, Rolan stepped out of his friend's path and swung his sword behind him. It was pure luck that his blade hit true and sliced deep into the back of the goblin that had toppled his companion. Screeching in pain, the beast hobbled off for several feet before dying.

Rolan cried out suddenly as he felt a sharp sting in his right side. Turning, he saw an arrow protruding from his upper torso. His limbs quickly began to numb as the poison in the tip worked through his system.

"Attlan?!" he cried as his legs began to give way beneath him.

Even as he dropped, three goblins charged toward his falling form.

"NO!" Attlan shouted as he leapt to his feet. As Rolan's staff slipped from his fingers, his friend snatched it immediately and stood defensively over his body. Enraged, Attlan shouted his defiance at the crowd of goblins still closing in on them.

Rolan could only watch as his friend, holding both staffs, unleashed their full force into the cluster. Somehow one goblin made it through the barrage and threatened to cut the young man down. Moving with speed earned only by their many past adventures, Attlan blocked the high attack and shoved the second staff against the creature's mid-section. Still shouting with rage he blew a hole the size of his own head through the goblin's body. He immediately turned back to the crowd and continued firing.

When the two instruments were finally spent, he switched to his own abilities and sent forth one area effect spell after another. Entire groups of the beasts fell to Attlan's powerful attacks. Another beast leapt high in the air, trying to catch his friend off-guard, but Attlan saw the maneuver and fired off a blast of lighting. As the quivering creature was catapulted away by the force his friend switched positions and held both arms in front of him. Suddenly, dozens of small fireballs began shooting from Attlan's fingertips in rapid succession. The line of goblins in front of him began to thin noticeably.

It was amazing, the amount of magical energy Rolan felt coming from his friend. The air around him was charged with mystical power and goosebumps formed throughout his body as his hair started to stand on end. He could practically taste the magicka as it raced into Attlan and it was all he could do to not be swept up in the tide of energy.

Even Parwen was frozen in place as she watched the awesome display of power from the young mage. She held her bow with arrow ready, but made no move to fire, instead staring with her eyes wide. The attractive Bosmer obviously had not known the level of her lover's talents.

Of course, Rolan had utilized the time well. He had spent several of his on-hand potions to counter-act the poison, heal his wounds, and restore his magical reserves. Fortunately for young Eilam Rolan had also had the sense of mind to toss him a powerful healing potion. With a quick nod to the armored lad, he reached into his robes once more and pulled out his strongest magicka restorative potion. He knew the sheer power Attlan was commanding had to be draining him significantly. Rolan also knew Attlan could not be troubled with drinking the potion on his own.

Lifting himself to his knees he positioned himself in front of Attlan and, after uncorking the elixir in his hand, reached up to pour the contents into his friend's waiting mouth. From his proximity, he could feel the mystical energy replenishing itself within his friend. Still on his knees Rolan stretched out his arms and mimicked Attlan's bizarre spell as best he could.

Working as one, the two mages swept their arms across the chamber and sent their deadly magical barrage into their enemies. As Attlan's arms swept wide, Rolan's came together and they left no safe haven for the scurrying creatures to hide. With ear-piercing cries, the beasts died one after another, unable to stand up to the focused attack. Swept up in Attlan's emotions, Rolan too began to shout his defiance to the crowd of remaining goblins.

In minutes, dozens of goblins were set ablaze and the coordinated attack they had organized quickly turned into a mindless confusion. Desperate to escape the fiery death, they clamored in all directions, some making their escape through the tunnels their own party had used to descend. When several of them clogged the passage to freedom, their tribesmen began hacking away at them in an attempt to save their own lives. So determined were they to survive, tribal loyalty had been discarded.

The pair of mages used the goblins' actions to their advantage and turned their volley upon the stranded escapees. Within a span of seconds, none of their small rabble remained alive.

As the tide began to turn, Rolan saw, out of the corner of his eye, a small group of goblins protectively surrounding another. Realizing the purpose of their actions, he grabbed his fallen blade and charged towards the group. Attlan was right behind him.

When the Goblin Shaman saw their approach, she wove her hands before her summoning forth a rotting zombie. Before they could even react, Eilam covered the distance and splattered the undead monstrosity with a sweep of his mighty warhammer. As the summoning magic dissipated the pieces of the zombie faded away.

With a mighty shout, the young knight swung his hammer again and they all heard the loud crunching of bone as he threw back two of the defenders. Taking up defensive positions behind him, Rolan and Attlan used their magic to enhance the young boy's strength and shield him from physical blows. From her position, Parwen fired what few arrows she had left into another of the goblin guards.

But the Shaman would not go down so easily.

Just as Eilam was preparing his final blow, the female goblin unleashed a devastating blast of lightning which propelled the young knight onto his back. He skid for several feet, armor scraping the hard rock of the cave floor, before coming to a halt. None of them saw any movement from his limp form. The sound of his hammer landing echoed throughout the cave.

Drawing her blade, a short sword of elven design similar to Rolan's, she screeched loudly and lunged for Attlan. Unfortunately, Attlan's skills lay mostly in the realm of the mystical, and he had never spent much time studying the art of sword fighting. While he was able to parry and dodge the initial attacks, the speed and ferocity of the Shaman was too much for his untrained arm and his weapon was soon dislodged and sent clattering to the floor. Relentless, the female goblin cut a deep gash in Attlan's arm and the stunned Breton fell backward.

Quickly stepping in, Rolan blocked the Shaman's killing blow and countered with several swings of his own. Over and over their swords clashed as they fought to gain any advantage over the other. Utilizing her own mystical skills, the Shaman's physical attack was accompanied by magic. With every shift in position or attempt to dodge, the goblin would fire off blasts of lightning or flame. Rolan mimicked the maneuvers as best he could, and he lamented not having practiced the technique before.

When Parwen tried to assist him, the Shaman summoned forth another zombie and sent the creature toward the Bosmer archer. Her own arrows spent, the Fighters Guild escort was using whatever she could salvage from the corpses of the nearby goblin archers. They were obviously of lesser quality than those she normally carried. The fact was evident as the zombie continued toward her with its stumbling gate even though she had turned it into some macabre pincushion.

Rolan risked a look over his shoulder and saw Attlan nursing a second wound on his head. Luck was obviously not with him this day as he had apparently collided with a sharp rock when he fell from the Shaman's attack. A quick glimpse at the other mage's eyes confirmed that he was dazed and not likely to be of assistance any time soon.

His momentary distraction almost cost him his life when he felt the Shaman's palm touch his chest. It was a miracle his heart did not stop as the goblin leader sent an excruciating blast of lightning coursing through his body. Although his genetics provided him with some degree of defense from magical assault, the Shaman's spell was powerful enough to overcome his resistance. Rolan fell to his knees as his sword slipped from his grasp for a second time.

Thinking herself victorious, the Shaman threw her head back and screamed with delight. Raising her sword high, she swung it around in circles above her head. She ceased her celebration as Rolan began to laugh.

His head hung low, the Breton continued his cackling until even Parwen began to wonder at his sanity.

"Shaman," he laughed as he looked up to meet her eyes. "Meet Toth."

So engrossed with her victory had the Shaman been she had completely missed the fact that a five hundred pound Daedroth had come up behind her. With one snap of his mighty jaws, Toth decapitated the goblin. Bone crunching loudly, Rolan's companion chewed greedily on the head until it was fit to swallow.

At some point during the battle Toth had chased after a group of goblins, intent on allowing none of them to escape. It was only through their link that Rolan had ordered the large, gator-like Daedra back to him. Fortunately, his old friend's timing had been perfect.

Mentally, Toth begged Rolan for permission to pursue the remaining goblins. After a quick assessment of his friend's wounds, he decided there would be little harm in allowing it. Immediately after receiving confirmation, Toth bounded off and all but skipped as he hunted down the last remaining goblins.

Breathing heavily, sweating profusely, and covered in both his own blood and that of his enemies', Rolan felt perfectly miserable. Tentatively he picked at the fabric of his robe. It was only the second time he had worn it but he knew there would be no salvaging the clothing. There was mud, blood, and various other bodily fluids – they had urinated on him?! – from the goblins accumulated throughout the cloth. His muscles ached when he tried to stand and he had to spend several minutes unwinding the cramped tissue with magic.

With the danger finally past them, Parwen ran over to inspect Eilam. As she hefted the young man into a sitting position they all heard him groan loudly. Satisfied that the attack had only stunned the lad, she nodded to Rolan.

Attlan was still groggy from his head trauma, but had enough focus to begin healing his own wounds. Rolan wondered if it was pure instinct that was driving his friend as he shuffled over to sit by him. Gently, he touched the wound along Attlan's head and sent his own healing abilities into the injury. It took some effort, for he was not as skilled in Restoration as he would have liked to be, but eventually the bleeding stopped and the cut was sealed.

The two mages sat next to each other, leaning against the cave wall and catching their breath for some time before either of them spoke.

"The Two Fool Bretons are victorious once again," Attlan mumbled.

Rolan relaxed and chuckled as he realized his friend was recovering.

"The _what?_" Parwen asked, with a grin.

In response, Rolan simply shook his head and smiled back.

"I'm sorry," Parwan apologized. "I had no idea there would be so many."

"I've heard that before," Attlan grumbled. "For the life of me I don't know why I let people talk me into these things."

"_You_ wanted to come!" Parwen and Rolan shouted in unison.

Both of Attlan's eyebrows rose as he replied, "Oh… well, it's a good thing we were here, then."

As usual Rolan was not sure if he wanted to throttle his friend or laugh. Eventually he chose the latter option… as usual.

"How is he?" Rolan asked of Eilam.

"He'll be fine," Parwen answered, "just shaken from the blast."

"Toth?" Attlan asked.

Closing his eyes, Rolan focused on his link with the Daedroth and, for a moment, he saw through his companion's eyes.

"Chasing down the last of them," Rolan informed them. "He should have a path cleared for us shortly."

"Good," Attlan grunted. "This place reeks of goblin."

"Fancy that," Rolan chuckled.

Although Rolan had to agree the accumulating odor of the still burning creatures was beginning to overpower his senses. The smoke rising from the charred corpses was beginning build and sting their eyes. To help alleviate their discomfort, Rolan used his magic to sweep the area with a cool wind from his fingertips. As his hand passed over Parwen, the Bosmer woman closed her eyes to savor the comforting breeze.

"Thank you for that," she smiled.

"Hey," Attlan said as he narrowed his eyes, "don't be _too_ grateful now."

With a seductive smile she quickly teased, "And why shouldn't I?"

Attlan's voice was ominous, but he wore a similar smile, "Do not toy with the emotions of a mage, my dear. You know not what dangers you may conjure."

"Is that so?" she cooed.

Crawling on all fours, Attlan came to sit next to the woman. He stared into her eyes mere inches from her face as he continued to smile. It was Parwen who gave in first and kissed him deeply. Moving his hand up to her face, Attlan slid his fingers around to caress the back of her neck. Parwen moaned softly at the young mage's touch.

Rolan averted his eyes as he could not help but feel discomfort at the display of affection. Discomfort and a bit of jealousy.

The two only ceased their embrace when they heard a loud clattering of armored boots coming towards them. The sounds came from the far end of the room where the smoke was still fairly thick. They were all amazed when three Imperial Legionnaires came through the cloud with weapons drawn.

In typical fashion, Attlan was the first to recover.

"Ah, good. I would like to issue a formal complaint," he said. "While the prices are fair, the quality of this establishment is far below acceptable standards."

The soldiers looked at him with a mixture of fear, awe, and confusion.

"I have to say that the professionalism of the staff leaves much to be desired," he continued.

From his position against the far wall, Rolan began chuckling softly.

"What happened here?" the center soldier asked, still looking around in bewilderment.

"We ordered the roast pig," Parwen answered.

"And they sent us roast _venison_," Attlan continued.

"A bit of advice," Rolan chimed in. "Never send the food back at this inn."

He looked around before finishing, "The chef is rather… sensitive about such things."

"And the complaint department is fairly vigorous in their response," Attlan added.

The two Legionnaires behind the center one began laughing as they sheathed their weapons. Shaking his head, the leader of the trio soon followed.

* * *

With the help of the three Legionnaires their group made their way into the crisp, cool breeze of the outdoors. Although grateful for the fresh air they all had to squint at the glare of the mid-afternoon sun.

"Blasted, sun!" Attlan complained. "Why does it always have to do that?"

"Why do we always forget is the real question," Rolan mumbled.

It didn't take long for their eyes to adjust and they continued down the road towards the gates to Skingrad. In the center of them they carried the body of Ulas, wrapped in what random cloth they could find in the mine. Even without his armor, the young Nord proved to be a significant weight, and they all shared in bearing the load.

At the sight of the Legionnaires the Watchmen opened the gates wide and were silent as their procession moved through the streets and toward the Chapel of Julianos. When the townspeople saw their approach, they all moved to give way with bowed heads. Several of them knew who lay within the bundle of cloth as many were familiar with the boastfully cheerful Nord boy.

Once their sad task was done, the Imperial Legion Commander spoke to them outside the chapel.

"I only wish we had reached you sooner," he said to them in a mournful tone. "We've been tracking the goblin warparty for over a week. They crossed half of Colovia raising havoc wherever they went, and we were dispatched to deal with them."

"There were seven of us, initially," one of the soldiers added as he removed his helmet. "Some of the bastards set an ambush for us outside the ruins of Elenglynn, just north of here a few days ago."

The commander nodded, "We lost some good men, including two of our battlemages. After tracing their trail to Skingrad we asked the local Watch Captain if he knew where they might be. He was the one who told us about your 'training exercise' and we ran as quickly as we could to lend our aid."

"It's a miracle you survived," the third soldier commented. "I never would have thought we'd find any of you alive."

"With these two?" the Commander chuckled. "Had I known they were in there, I wouldn't have bothered. They can handle themselves."

Rolan and Attlan looked to each other in confusion. Still chuckling, the leader of the trio finally removed his helmet. Slowly Rolan felt his memory begin to recognize the man standing before them.

"Hayn?" Rolan said, distantly recalling the man's name.

"Itius Hayn," Attlan said, a large grin appearing on his face. With his right hand, he clasped the gauntlet of the Legion Commander.

"It's good to see you again, young masters," Itius smiled warmly. "Although I never would have thought it likely."

"Nor I," Rolan agreed. "I take it your transfer to the Imperial City did not go as planned."

"Unfortunately, no," he lamented. "My superiors did promote me, but my ambitions of serving in the Imperial City will have to wait."

"You always were a city-boy, Commander," one of the soldiers joked.

"Wait," Parwen interrupted. "How do you three know each other?"

"They assisted me-" Itius began to say but was cut short when Rolan and Attlan looked to him with raised eyebrows.

"Apparently… _I_ assisted _them_, in ridding Sercen of some bandits that had taken up residence there some time back," he corrected himself.

"_Assisted_ is a strong word," Rolan teased.

"Well, Hayn was _there_ in any case," Attlan added.

The three of them shared a laugh.

"It was almost three years ago, was it not?" Rolan asked.

Hayn nodded, "I think that's right."

"More like two-and-a-half," Attlan said. "It was just before Bruma, remember?"

Rolan nodded his agreement of Attlan's assessment. He remembered how inexperienced he had been that time so long ago. To think how much he and Attlan had grown both in size and skill since then was almost more than Rolan could imagine.

"It seems longer than that, somehow, does it not?" he asked his friend.

Smiling back, Attlan nodded and clapped him on the back.

"Will you be leaving today or staying the night?" Rolan asked.

"My men and I could use some rest after the week we've had," Itius nodded. "We'll likely stay for a day or two to recharge and resupply before heading back to the Legion offices to file our report."

"You're a beautiful man, sir," the third soldier said.

Hayn grinned at the man in response.

"Would you like to join us for dinner, then?" Attlan asked. "We can share a drink to our fallen comrades and catch up on the last couple of years."

Hayn received confirmations from both his men before answering, "Sounds good."

"The West Weald Inn or Two Sisters Lodge?" Rolan asked.

"Two Sisters," Parwen answered.

The three of them nodded, thinking it best to avoid the snobbish looks of the regulars at the West Weald Inn. While the food was tasty enough, the company at the Two Sisters Lodge was far more amiable. Rolan provided directions to the location to Hayn and his men and suggested that they also find lodging there as Mog gra-Mogakh, the Orc proprietor of the Inn, was known to give discounts to patrons of the Legion.

When the trio of Legionnaires headed to the west end of the city, Rolan and his companions headed toward the guilds at the north end of the city. As they crossed the bridge, and Attlan and Parwen began whispering into each other's ears, he began rubbing his sore neck profusely. It seemed as if every part of his body ached and was intent on complaining profusely at any further activity. Too exhausted to even reach for healing magic, he wondered if there would be time enough for a nap after he washed and burned his clothes.

Looking to Parwen he was curious if she too found her attire to be too unsavory to contend with. Was it even possible to get the smell of goblin out of chainmail? He still could not understand how she moved so freely in the metal. Whenever Rolan had tried to wear armor of any kind he found the weight of even the lightest leather to be taxing. The suffocating sensation the material was so distracting that he found it difficult to concentrate. With focus being the primary strength of a mage, he discovered that when wearing armor of any kind, the strength of his spells suffered significantly. Several discussions with various battlemages educated him that while one did learn to endure the weight and discomfort, some degree of focus was inevitably lost. That was the sacrifice one had to make for the added physical protection.

As Eilam's steel boots clanked along the cobblestones Rolan thought to ask the young man if he found his armor to be comfortable. When he saw the haunted look in the knight's eyes, however, he decided against it. Rolan knew that gaze all too well. Likely he had sported some form of it after his first encounter at Sercen. Odds were, Eilam was beginning to doubt whether he had chosen wisely in his decided profession.

Rather than use clumsy words to comfort the knight, he simply lay his hand on Eilam's shoulder. When the young knight looked up at him, Rolan smiled and nodded in understanding. Whether it was the simple touch of another or the understanding that there were others who shared his feelings, Rolan could not know, but afterwards Eilam did seem to walk a little lighter and taller. It would take time, Rolan knew, but the boy seemed possessed of the proper character.

"Oh, sweet bathing waters," Attlan exclaimed as the came within sight of the Fighters and Mages Guild buildings, "I can hear you calling!"

"I am beginning to wonder if we should elect to bathe outdoors," Rolan said. "Unless we intend to inflict this odor upon our guildmates' senses."

"I was actually looking _forward_ to doing just that," Attlan informed him.

Rolan laughed at his friend's discourteousness.

"He's right, though," Parwen said. "We should probably just get some fresh clothes and bathe in the creek north of the city."

"_More_ walking?!" Attlan whimpered.

"It's the decent thing to do, you fetcher," she teased. "We may be getting used to the smell, but from the looks of the townsfolk, they can smell us all the way in Kvatch."

Attlan's face turned into a fearsome pout.

"Gather a change of clothes and we'll meet you out here in a few minutes," the Bosmer instructed as she kissed Attlan once more.

"Fine," his friend finally conceded.

"What about our armor?" Eilam asked his senior.

"Reymond will take care of it," she told the young knight. "That's what a Fighters Guild Porter is for, after all."

He nodded and opened the large door for the attractive Bosmer. Parwen rose her eyebrows and looked at Attlan, silently indicating her approval of the Eilam's actions. Not one to be outdone, Attlan skipped the last few steps to the Mages Guild door and opened it with a flourish, bowing low to Rolan. Eilam looked on in confusion.

"Ignore him," Parwen sighed. "He's just an ass."

Grinning, the two Fighters headed indoors.

Rolan walked past his friend as he continued to hold his pose.

"Thank you, Mage Ass," he said and stepped past the threshold.

In response, Attlan slapped Rolan hard on the rear and laughed hysterically as he was chased all the way to the living quarters. The other mages only stared in shock at the bizarre spectacle.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm not too thrilled with how the battle scene turned out. It seemed like the fight with the Shaman could have gone on a bit more. Any suggestions y'all can give to improve it would be greatly appreciated.

Initially this was supposed to be a two-part chapter, but the second portion only dragged the story down to a grinding halt. Instead of posting a slow and uneventful part two, I decided to eliminate the sequel completely. Besides all that, the real story doesn't begin until the main characters enter the Arcane University, and with two more cities left until then, I figured it would be best to hurry things along.

Also, I'd like to extend my gratitude to the folks at the Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages for providing one of the most extensive databases on the people, places, and general knowledge for the world of Oblivion and all other Elder Scrolls games. Without them, I don't think the "For Love of Magic" story would have been possible.


	7. Chapter 7: An Unwelcome Distraction

Elder Scrolls IV: Once and Future Archmage

**Chapter 7: An Unwelcome Distraction**

The crowd gasped in unison as the warrior garbed in red lost his footing and crashed roughly on the hard dirt. Seizing the opportunity, the second warrior – clothed in similar though green armor – quickly charged in. His heavy claymore raised high, the Green Team's Nord chopped down hard.

Quick to react, however, the Red Team's Redguard raised his shield arm in time to deflect the blow. While the maneuver saved his life, it was clear to all that the impact none-the-less jarred the man. Eager to be clear of a second attempt the Redguard rolled to his side and put some distance between him and his off-balanced opponent.

The stands cheered with elation as he rose to his feet once more and wove his heavy mace around in an impressive display. Obviously not about to let the momentary lapse of focus deter him the Redguard charged toward the Nord, shouting the whole time. Steel rang against steel as the two weapons clashed over and over again, and with each clang of metal the crowd's cries rose even higher. Cheers and jeers shouted forth from the group as they called their words of encouragement or discouragement. Seeming to feed off their energy, the two combatants renewed their attacks with greater vigor.

Sweat, dust, and ale were the prevailing odors which assaulted the nostrils of any who had the presence of mind to be aware of them. The hot afternoon sun blazed down in full fury and it was a wonder the Arena's seats were filled to capacity. None of the people there seemed to mind, however, as they continued to absorb themselves in the spectacle below them. All but one.

From his seat in the stands high above the battle below, Rolan turned away and shook his head. Unlike the many other patrons in attendance, he had no taste for Kvatch's Arena. How a people that considered themselves civilized could stomach such displays of death and depravity for their own entertainment was beyond his comprehension.

In all other respects, Kvatch was a thriving beacon of Imperial civility and progress. Poverty and despair were all but unknown in the streets of the prosperous city. Recognized as one of the richest counties in all the Empire wealth was known in some form to most of its inhabitants and their generosity to their neighbors was equally great.

Wares brought in from Anvil were often shipped and sold in Kvatch's ample merchant's quarter – where a citizen, with the right amount of coin, could buy just about anything. Immigrants and travelers from the Gold Coast often used the city as a gathering point before venturing into the unknown regions of Colovia, the West Weald, or Heartlands. Several of the inns were designed to cater to such groupings and many citizens made a good living by leading or supplying caravans.

For visitors there were recreational activities of all kind, ranging from simple games of chance to the ever-infamous Arena. Princes and paupers alike were granted with a multitude of choices by which to occupy their free time. Through special dispensations from the Count, several of the taverns were allowed to serve alcohol well into the morning hours and were only too happy to take their turn in sponsoring various festivals occurring throughout the year.

Rolan was impressed with the city, although he had found several of the local preferences to be past his liking. Attlan, however, was more than happy with their current circumstances.

"YES!" the Breton mage shouted with glee.

Sitting beside the enlivened initiate, Rolan sighed.

"Grab him! Bite him! Rip his arm off… and… BEAT HIM! Beat him with his own arm!" Attlan shouted his instructions to the combatants.

Rolan was curious if he was directing his comments to a particular combatant or whomever happened to listen. It didn't much matter what his friend shouted since similar cries were constantly erupting around them and were all drowned out in a general shouting ruckus. Unwilling to sit through another deaf-inducing afternoon, Rolan tugged on Attlan's robes and informed him of his intentions to leave.

Not surprised at his friend's actions, Attlan looked to Rolan briefly and nodded before turning his attention back to the spectacle below.

"YES!" he shouted again. "Now BITE HIM!!"

Rolan rolled his eyes at the words and headed down the stairs and away from the crowd. When he finally made his was out the Arena doors he was amazed that he could still hear the cries of the attendees even half way through the city.

Lost to his own thoughts, Rolan waded through the afternoon crowds as he continued his path away from the Arena. He narrowly avoided a collision with a rather attractive Bosmeri woman as his focus turned inward. For the last several days he had found himself troubled with the concerns of the near future. While he had enjoyed his time in Kvatch, for the most part, he was nonetheless troubled by the idea that his and Attlan's time there would soon be coming to an end.

In less than a week's time they would be taking the tests for advancement and likely continuing on to Anvil soon after. While a part of him relished the idea of returning to the home he had known most of his life, another part could not help but view their next destination with a degree of trepidation. Perhaps the problem was he did not truly feel as if Anvil was home any longer?

For nearly seven years he had not called the port town nor the Gold Coast his home. In that time he had been back only once and the few hours he had spent there were riddled with discomfort and distinct uneasiness. Truth be told, had he _not_ known of the dangers his family faced on that day, chances were he would never have returned until circumstances forced the issue. The fact that he had not been back since then only solidified his belief.

True as the situation was, however, Rolan still wondered why he felt such reluctance to return.

He missed his family, that much was certain. It had pained him greatly to see their saddened faces as he prepared to return to Chorrol nearly two years ago. At the same time, though, he had to admit to feeling a sense of relief at his departure. Perhaps he felt a sense of freedom away from their watchful eyes that he could not have while in their presence?

It seemed foolish to think so, considering his family was the one group he needed to conceal nothing from. Or was that altogether true anymore?

His attention turned outward suddenly as he heard the idle chatter of two Imperial merchants. They were discussing the rumors Rolan had also heard of travelers who had embarked upon a holy pilgrimage to the wayshrines of the Divines. After the chapel attack in Anvil rumors had surfaced of a prophet who had been preaching a return of a great evil. Not long after, talk of adventurers answering the call of the Divines had sprouted. Rolan dismissed the tales. Every few years there seemed to be some great threat to the people if one believed in rumor.

While he had inquired as to the aftermath of the Anvil attack, none of the other mages had heard any solid facts in the matter. Most suspected it was the act of a summoning experiment gone awry, but Rolan wondered who would be performing such an experiment in a chapel of all places. If anything the sanctum of a Divine would prove a hindrance to such an endeavor.

He shrugged, dismissing the line of thought and continued on through the noisy crowds.

Dodging several wagons loaded with various wares and resisting the urge to peruse the items in the scattered shops and tables he was surprised to find himself before the Chapel of Akatosh. Rolan looked around in confusion and wondered what would have brought him there. A slow smile spread on his lips as he realized why he had unconsciously chosen this destination.

Opening one of the doors he stood in the archway for a moment and relished the cool wave of air that swept past him. Grateful for the momentary relief he stepped in before his stance could be considered loitering. With slow and quiet steps he came to stand before the main altar. Taking great care to show proper respect, he knelt low and said a silent prayer to the great dragon god.

After paying his respects, the mage stood and looked around the chapel. When he did not find the person he was looking for, Rolan caught the attention of Ilav Dralgoner, the chapel Primate, and came to stand beside the man. The Primate smiled at him, recognizing Rolan almost immediately.

"Pardon my interruption, Primate, but-" Rolan began to say but was stopped by the other man's upraised hand.

"Our Brother is not here at the moment, young magister," Illav informed him. "He is outside the walls gathering ingredients for his potions."

Smiling back at the peaceful man, Rolan nodded.

Feeling rather embarrassed, the mage stepped away and left the monk to his duties. In a few minutes time he was retrieving his mount from the stables and heading down the path to the Gold Road. He steered his horse towards the east, knowing the likely places to find his quarry. After almost an hour of riding, he finally spotted the monk's own mount.

Dismounting, Rolan tied his horse to a nearby tree and looked around. Eventually he spotted the figure of a man crouched low among the foliage. He was busy inspecting the flora and did not notice the mage's approach.

With a sly grin, Rolan deepened his voice and spoke, "Your valuables or your life!"

"Ah, but what one man holds valuable may seem worthless to another. While some hold trinkets in high esteem, there are those who see true worth in the knowledge of the mind. Perhaps one would even hold their life as their one true possession of value," the unperturbed monk answered. "So that is really not a choice is it? And I would dare say if you were to leave with my gold, I would still be the richer man."

Rolan chuckled at the priest's words.

The other man turned then, and stood up to look the mage in the eyes. Smiling, he offered his hand. Although it was covered with a thin layer of dirt, Rolan shook it nonetheless.

"Hello, Rolan," the priest greeted him warmly. "What brings a magister into the wildlands? Looking for flax?"

"A coincidence, perhaps?" Rolan shrugged.

"Really?" the priest asked.

"Actually, Brother Martin, I was hoping to speak with you," Rolan answered after a pause.

Martin's brow furrowed at the admission, "Oh, what for? Does something trouble you, my friend?"

"I was surprised to hear you were gathering alchemical ingredients again," Rolan said, clumsily avoiding the question. "After the last incident I would have thought you had lost your taste for Alchemy."

Instead of annoyance, Martin showed only patience.

"Yes, I suppose that would be understandable," the older man smiled again and turned back to his work. "While the skill isn't exactly coming naturally, I am nonetheless fascinated by it."

Rolan rubbed the back of his neck as the awkwardness descended upon him. He looked to Martin's hands as he was about to pick another flower.

"That one will not do you any good," he blurted.

"Oh?" Martin turned around and raised his eyebrow. "Why is that?"

"The stem is too narrow," he informed. "That means the flower is young and has not had time to develop the proper level of oils. If you feel the one next to it, you can tell that the stem is more solid and the coloring is brighter. It will give you a much better yield when mixed."

"Is that so?" Martin was obviously impressed with his knowledge. "Is it the same with mushrooms?"

"With mushrooms, texture, and not thickness is more essential."

"I didn't know that."

Grateful for the change of subject, Rolan spent the next few hours instructing Martin on the finer points of picking flowers… for Alchemy purposes. Much later, as the sun began to set, the two of them decided it would be better to spend the night outside the walls rather than make the trip back under the cover of darkness. Rolan took the opportunity to instruct Martin on the proper use of Alchemy equipment.

"So will you ever speak of it?" Martin asked after one of Rolan's more lengthy explanation between the differences of retorts and alembics.

"Speak of what?" Rolan asked, looking up from one of his oldest reference tomes.

Looking the mage straight in the eyes, Martin said, "What brought you out into the middle of the Imperial Reserve looking for some fool priest."

"Oh," Rolan replied and set down his book.

When it became obvious Rolan was not about to speak, Martin prompted the younger man.

"It was obvious that something has been bothering you of late, my friend," he said with infinite patience. "If there is anything I can do to alleviate your concerns, I will. But it would help to know _what_ is bothering you."

"I only wish I knew," the mage admitted. "I have come to value your advice, my friend, and I must admit that was the main factor in my decision to venture from the walls today."

"Does this have anything to do with your notorious companion?"

"Attlan?" Rolan chuckled. "No, by the grace of the Nine he has been occupied with the diversions of the city far too often to involve us in any misguided activities. It is a welcome reprieve, I must admit."

"Your studies, perhaps?"

Rolan thought on that for a moment before answering, "Perhaps."

He considered his words before continuing.

"As you may know my service to the Kvatch guildhall will be coming to an end soon."

Martin nodded, "Yes, I had heard you were preparing to take the examinations for your recommendation."

"While perhaps some degree of my disconcertion has arisen from that looming event, I find my thoughts falling inevitably to what will succeed that."

Martin crooked his head as he considered Rolan's words.

Rubbing his forehead in frustration, and wishing his mind would simply shut up, Rolan tried to reason through his own emotions.

"Is the thought of returning to Anvil causing you distress?" the priest asked. "Often times, the thought seeing home after a long absence can give rise to feelings of discomfort."

"I had thought on that," Rolan nodded. "But the more I reflect, the more I feel it is my time _after_ that is the source."

Martin's eyebrows perked up as he said, "The Arcane University?"

Hesitantly, Rolan nodded again.

"Why… what would worry you so at entering the University?" the Imperial man asked. "After spending nearly seven years upon your journey for admittance you are _now_ beginning to doubt yourself?"

Rolan could hardly believe it had been so long. Though there were times he felt as if he and Attlan had spent an eternity on their journey for the most part their time together seemed so short. It was difficult for his mind to fathom, that so much time had passed since they had begun their endeavor. Furthermore, it seemed even longer since he had thought of himself as an individual and not one-half of a pair.

Once more, the disturbed mage considered his words before speaking.

"It is… a sensation which has been ever present in my mind, although, until now, not on a conscious level," he muttered, not really understanding the words himself.

"What sort of sensation?" Martin prompted.

Even as the priest began to ask the question, Rolan was shaking his head in frustration.

"I do not know," he admitted grudgingly, "and it irritates me. There is no reason for it, but every time I think upon entering the Arcane University… a great sadness envelops me. It is as if I am hearing a cry of warning, but over an incredible distance."

"A foretelling?"

Rolan shook his head again, "I do not have the power of foretelling. None in my family ever has."

"Ah, but all magisters are sensitive to such things to one degree or another. It is impossible not to be and still weave magicka to our wills. In doing so we gain a deeper understanding of both the physical and spiritual world. Often times, at moments of great crisis, even those that have yet occurred echoes are sent out through the mystical world. In rare cases, those who are especially sensitive to such vibrations are able to detect them, faint though they may be."

"Do you possess such abilities?" Rolan asked with interest.

Martin paused a moment before nodding, "Ever since I was a child I have had… dreams. Some which have come to pass and others… perhaps in time."

"But I have never had dreams of such a nature. My trepidation is merely an impression. Much like the sensation of the air in the hours before a storm. Vague and impressionless, but tangible nonetheless," Rolan rubbed the back of his neck as he finished his statement.

"Perhaps at this point in your teachings that is all you are capable of sensing. In time it may become more vivid and certain, but do not discount your instincts simply because you do not understand the message. Trust in yourself. It could be that your inner senses are detecting something that your conscious mind has overlooked."

Rolan considered the priest's words carefully.

Could it be that his own senses were aware on a level beyond his normal comprehension? With all that he had learned of magic in the last few years Rolan knew enough to discount nothing as impossible. If it were true… then what were they trying to tell him?

Again, he felt the sense of melancholy wash over him as he thought about the future. It focused slightly as he dwelled on the University, but quickly swept away like smoke in a breeze. Then it was gone.

Something was going to happen. There was a storm on the horizon and, in time, it would rain down its fury and threaten to sweep clear all that he held close to him. He knew it. Some how, in some way, he knew.

"Attlan," he said aloud, but did not know why.

"Yes?" a voice called out from the shadows behind him.

Turning in surprise, the Breton mage watched as his half-Altmer friend emerged into the dim light of the fire. Absently, his friend tossed a cloth-wrapped bundle into his hands. With a raised eyebrow Rolan unraveled the package to find an assortment of sweet cakes and rolls. Looking up at his companion he asked the obvious question in silence.

"Let's just say my winnings were… generous, today," Attlan declared with a wide grin.

"How did you find me?" Rolan asked.

"You keep asking me that," Attlan mocked as he rolled his eyes and settled down next to him.

"And you never answer."

"And yet you _continue to ask_!"

Across the fire, Martin laughed softly.

Obviously feeling generous that evening, Attlan lifted one of the rolls and offered it to the priest. Nodding in acceptance, Martin lifted his hands ready to catch the pastry.

"Wait, are priests allowed to eat sweets? I thought you were all supposed to be pious and such," Attlan asked.

"Attlan!" Rolan shouted as he choked on a mouthful of cake.

Ever patient, however, Martin only laughed before saying, "I do not think Akatosh would mind a minor indulgence. Besides, such delicacies were a part of my personal history, and as Akatosh is a proponent of honoring our history by consuming these pastries I am, in a sense, honoring Akatosh."

His grin wider than ever, Attlan tossed over a few of the sweet rolls before adding, "I like the way you think, good sir."

The three of them enjoyed their dessert in silence before Attlan spoke again.

"So were you overanalyzing something again?" he asked.

"I was _not_ overanalyzing," Rolan grumbled.

"Sure you weren't," Attlan rolled his eyes. "Face it, Rolan, if it weren't for me, you would practically live in your own head."

"That is not true," Rolan contended.

"Isn't it?"

Rolan looked away for a moment and considered his friend's words. He had to admit his life would be much different had he never met the other mage. Many of the more memorable moments of the last few years were often the result of Attlan's suggestion or ill-inspired action. As much as Rolan groaned at the thought of one of his friend's "adventures" it was likely due to their experiences that his magical skills had expanded as much as they had. Even their instructors had commented upon Attlan and his knowledge of combative magic. Some had come to them for advice before venturing into their own risky activities.

"You're doing it again!" Attlan groaned.

"What?!" Rolan complained.

"You're over-analyzing!"

Dropping his head into his hand, Rolan began to laugh as he realized the truth of Attlan's words.

"It's _your_ fault!" he accused.

"Me?!" Attlan rose an eyebrow. "How is this _my_ fault?"

"Because…" Rolan quickly fought to find _some_ reason to blame the other mage, "because we have hardly left the city walls in the last few months! And… I have become bored."

He couldn't tell if Attlan was going to laugh or punch him… or do both.

"With all that griping you did after Derelict Mine? I thought you said you didn't want to _ever go adventuring again_?"

"Well…" Rolan hated it when his friend used facts and logic against him. "Our escapades were a welcome distraction. Without any outward activity my natural instinct is to become introspective."

"So you're restless and it's my fault?" Attlan laughed.

"Yes," Rolan answered and joined in his mirth. "Besides the experiences themselves, we had a tendency to acquire interesting artifacts which would occupy my time afterwards."

As Attlan chewed on another mouthful of cake he chortled, "What's the point of finding artifacts when you're only going to give them away?!"

It was Rolan's turn to raise an eyebrow at the question. After only a moment's thought, however, he realized what Attlan was referring to.

"_One time!_" Rolan shouted as he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yes!" his friend exclaimed as he shook his head. "_Only _one time!"

"Well, this sounds like an interesting story," Martin prompted.

"Oh, it is!" Attlan cried.

Sighing heavily, Rolan grumbled, "No, it is not."

"Yes, it _is_!" Attlan asserted.

Grinning ear to ear, Martin settled himself and leaned in to hear the tale.

Attlan began his recounting, "It was in an Ayleid ruin outside of Bruma. We risked life and limb fighting a den of vampires-"

"And _why_ exactly did we _have_ to risk life and limb?" Rolan asked in a sardonic tone.

"Don't change the subject," Attlan grumbled. "Anyhow, there were over twenty of them."

"Or seven," Rolan corrected.

"Would _you_ like to tell this story?!" Attlan complained.

"Yes," Rolan quickly answered. "Perhaps then it would have _some_ degree of truth to it!"

"You have no appreciation for narrative, do you? As I was saying, _before I was rudely interrupted_, we wade through an entire den of over thirty vampires with sharp fangs dripping with their unsavory lust for our blood-"

Tempted as Rolan was to mention that they had, in fact, fed prior to their arrival, he managed to stay his mouth. Instead, he smiled and shook his head profusely.

"Barely escaping with our lives, and with more of their coven on the way, we searched frantically for the treasure that had brought us into their lair. After finding the artifact, we also discovered a few enchanted trinkets that our vampire friends were going to have no further use of. One of which happened to be an enchanted Mithril tiara. Of course we'll never know just what kind of enchantment it contained since after returning to Bruma with the spoils of our conquest, Mr. Charity here _gives_ the tiara away!"

"You gave away a valuable enchanted item? To whom?" Martin asked. "A lady love, perhaps?"

"Were you in love with her, Rolan?" Attlan asked with eyes widened in horror. "Because if you were…"

"She was a street urchin," Rolan explained, "only a child."

"I noticed you didn't answer my question," Attlan accused with feigned disgust.

After gifting his friend with a vulgar hand gesture Rolan said, "Don't be crude, Attlan."

"Says the man with an extended finger," his friend snorted.

Chuckling from across the fire, Martin asked, "An act of compassion?"

Rolan considered before answering, "She reminded me of my own sister when she was young. Except… she looked so sad. Her clothes were faded from being worn for so long and as she stood there shivering in the cold Bruma air I could not help but feel something. I had to do something. If even for a moment, I wanted to bring a smile to her sad face."

"Oh she smiled, alright," Attlan scoffed. "Probably went and bragged to her friends how her puppy eyes gained her a prize worth more than most of the merchants in the city could ever pay."

"I don't think so," Rolan argued. "I never saw her again after that day, but a part of me likes to think that she has it still. And perhaps, at moments of reflection, or despair, she looks upon it and remembers the kindness of a stranger. I would like to hope that in that moment, even if just for a moment, she smiles at that day so long ago."

They all sat silent for a moment, and Rolan found his eyes drifting up to the twin moons high in the night sky. Was she even alive? Nearly four years had passed since that day. His attempts at learning the girl's identity had met with failure as none of the local residents ever seemed to remember her. It was easy enough for a child such as her to go unnoticed, he supposed. Rolan found his musings interrupted as Attlan embraced him in a vicious hug and began to weep openly and loudly.

"That was beautiful!" he shouted in an obviously mocking tone. "I think… I think I love you, Rolan!"

Anger rising in him, Rolan tried to fight off his annoying friend's attentions.

"Argh, get off me, you ass!" Rolan shouted.

"Yes!" Attlan cried and continued to force a kiss upon his friend's lips. "I am _your_ ass, Rolan! And your ass loves you!"

Even Martin laughed at the foolish declaration.

"Now do you see why I am troubled so?" Rolan groaned.

Martin nodded, "I must admit, simply looking at you two is disturbing enough."

Attlan only laughed.

Bothered as he was by his demented friend's juvenile behavior, Rolan had to admit that he was feeling much better than he had earlier. Truth be told, it had always been Attlan's foolishness and troublesome antics that pulled him from his introverted inspections. Not for the first time, he wondered just how different his life would be like without the other mage. Perhaps a bit more sane, but not nearly as interesting. For some reason, wherever Attlan went, trouble seemed to follow.

As if on cue, five figures emerged from the darkness and into the firelight. They were of varying races and wore differing types of armor, but all shared one commonality… they had their swords drawn and an ill look about them.

Immediately, Attlan ceased his actions and Martin's face quickly sobered.

"Well, well, well," one of the men – an Imperial from his accent – spoke, "what have we here? A few frilly merchants out for some fun with the boys?"

A Redguard, holding a finely forged Ebony sword added, "You know, it's dangerous to go out at night. There are all sorts of unsavory folks about in the dark unknown."

"Your money or your lives, gentlemen," an Argonian's raspy voice said.

Attlan's expression was one of amusement – to which Rolan felt his heart sink. With their weapons stowed away, Rolan wondered what could be causing the confidence in his friend. Apparently Attlan had more faith in their skills than he did.

"You've wandered into the wrong camp tonight, good sirs," Attlan boasted with a grim grin.

The five men shared a round of laughter.

"To disturb the dinner of the Two Fool Bretons is a grave offense," Attlan continued, undaunted.

Two of the men stopped laughing immediately. Their companions, obviously confused, lowered their mirth as one of them – a Dunmer with steel armor – locked eyes with his Imperial companion. The pair were the only ones to take a step back as their friend's continued to close the circle.

Even Rolan was taken aback at the men's reactions. Had Attlan and he actually garnered a reputation?!

Seizing the moment, Attlan quickly stood up and made a show of dusting himself off. As he did so his eyes caught Rolan's and shut tightly once before opening again. Understanding the silent message, he relayed the sentiment to Martin by rubbing his hand over his eyes after catching the priest's attention. His friend's skill with Illusion was impressive, and Rolan only hoped Martin understood what was coming.

"You're right, though, good sir," Attlan said to the Redguard. "It _is_ rather dark."

Rolan immediately turned away and shut his eyes as Attlan unleashed a powerful Light spell. In unison the five men cried out as their eyes were burned by the sudden flare.

Although the spell quickly dissipated it's effects were long lasting and Rolan turned the full force of his own magic upon the group. With his own magicka reserves spent by the Light spell, Attlan fell to his knees in exhaustion. For a moment Rolan was overcome with emotion that his friend trusted him to such a degree that he had spent himself for the distraction. It was a sacrifice he would not allow to go in vain as Rolan fired off several blasts of powerful Frost magic at each of the bandits. Even Martin lent his skills in Destruction to the task once he had recovered.

Within minutes, the five men were laying flat on their backs. Two were dead, and the other three were badly injured from Martin and Rolan's attacks. After regaining some of his composure, Attlan rose up and stumbled over to the fallen Argonian.

"Now," he heard Attlan say between gasps, "I believe… the wager was… your money… or your lives?"

Rolan watched aghast as the sentient reptile inched his fingers toward a small bundle at his belt. With a few clumsy tugs, he managed to pull the pouch free before slowly offering it up to the mage. As Attlan collected similar remunerations from the other fallen thieves Martin caught Rolan's attention by pointing to the south.

He looked up to see two men bearing torches on horseback charging towards them. When they neared he realized that they wore the armor of the Imperial Legion. The two soldiers pulled up and dismounted, their weapons drawn.

"Brother Martin," one of the men called out, "we saw the light from the road to the south. What has happened here?"

"These men tried to rob two mages of the Guild and a servant of Akatosh," Attlan proclaimed. "But they knew not with whom they stood."

Looking Rolan straight in the eye, Martin asked, "Is _this_ what you call a welcome distraction?"

Scratching his head, Rolan grinned and shrugged.


	8. Chapter 8: A Fatal Mistake

**Chapter 8: A Fatal Mistake**

_Pain._

Rolan turned his head from one side to the other. His eyes moved unfocused to the point he could see only vague shapes and colors as he groggily blinked. Even the swimming vision he had threatened to fail him as the darkness threatened to overcome. The wound on his left side was flowing freely and he was powerless to stem the flow of his life's blood onto the cold stone floor. As his mouth moved, blood began to trickle into his throat and threatened to choke him.

With his mind reeling it was all he could do to simply remain conscious.

_Fear._

Sheer willpower was all that was keeping him alive, now, he knew. The cuts below his ribs and across his head should have claimed his life already. Breathing came through labored efforts as he stubbornly focused on expanding and contracting his lungs. He would not let it end like this. Not when there was still a chance…

_Determination._

Magic was not an option. What reserves he had left had been spent long ago, even if he did manage to focus enough to cast a spell.

His fingers were numb and slow to react to his commands, but gradually, they began to move towards his waist. He began to have hopes that he might survive the day, but his hopes were dashed as shadowy fingers crawled across his eyes.

_Darkness…_

**2 weeks ago…**

As the two riders neared the walls of Anvil they slowed their mounts' gates to a gentle walk. Eventually they came to a stop and looked upon the city teeming with activity. One of the pair raised his head high and inhaled deep the salty air. Releasing the breath slowly, he smiled.

"So?" Attlan nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. "Home sweet home?"

With a nondescript shrug, Rolan answered, "Perhaps."

"Admit it," the other mage pressed, "the sea breeze, the sights, even the people… you're glad to see it."

Grinning, Rolan nodded.

"Hello," a grumbling voice caught their attention.

Rolan looked across Attlan to see a Khajiit male dressed in dirty grey robes standing by the road to Anvil. He looked to them both before speaking again.

"M'aiq knows much, tells some. M'aiq knows many things others do not." he stated, simply.

After a shared look with Rolan, Attlan replied, "Ah, that's good to know, I suppose."

"Ehhh," the Khajiit answered before turning to run down the road at an incredible pace.

The two mages twisted in their mounts to stare at the quickly diminishing figure of the runner. Amazed, Rolan doubted that even on horseback he could catch up to the speedy feline.

His face covered in bewilderment, Attlan asked, "Is this… normal around here?"

With a look of confusion on his own face Rolan confirmed that the experience was new to him as well.

"And here I thought this would be a boring year. So when am I going to meet this family of yo-"

Attlan's words were cut short as he caught sight of a beautiful young woman rushing out the opened gates to meet them. She was carrying a basket of assorted fruits and dressed in a simple pale blue dress. Her midnight black hair, windblown and slightly unkempt, partially trailed behind her as she ran toward them. Sylfie's bright blue eyes sparkled with joy along with her beaming smile.

Throwing his leg over, Rolan slid off his saddle and ran forward to meet the giggling young woman. It was hard to believe, but in the last two years since he had seen her she had only become more beautiful.

"Rolan!" she shouted as she dropped her basket and enveloped him in a massive hug. "You're here! I can't believe you're finally here!"

Grinning widely, Rolan returned his sister's embrace and followed up with a kiss on her small cheek.

"It is good to see you again, little sister," he whispered.

"Little to _you_ maybe!" she laughed. "Look at you, you're _huge_!"

Confused by her declaration, Rolan stepped back and looked down. After a moment he realized she was referring to his muscular frame and not any lingering pudginess which even his own critical eye could not discern.

"Ah, well, I have supplemented my mental pursuits with those of the physical as well," he explained. "Either out of necessity or circumstance it has proven to be a useful asset."

"Yes, and I'm certain the lady folk of the other cities thoroughly enjoyed your 'assets' as well," Sylfie jibed, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

His eyes went wide at the statement.

"Don't be so prudish, big brother," she chided him, "I'm not a little girl anymore."

"To me that is all you shall ever be," he chuckled as he tousled her hair.

With a playful slap, she fended off his hand.

Intending to be respectful to his friend, Rolan turned to his side with the thought of introducing Attlan to his sister. Much to his bewilderment, Rolan found his normally precocious friend still sitting atop his mount. His eyes and mouth alike opened wide, Attlan continued to stare at the two of them but made no attempt to move.

"Attlan?" Rolan called out.

The sound of his name visibly shook the other mage from his stance. Only after looking around for a few moments did Attlan realize he was still mounted. He made a hasty, and rather clumsy, dismount before walking over to the siblings. By the time he reached them Attlan had regained much of his composure and bowed slightly before his sister before reaching down for her hand. With a confident smile the taller mage pressed his lips to Sylfie's hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Lady Ulfson," his friend said in a tone that was far too intimate for Rolan's liking.

Fortunately Sylfie was beyond such simplistic attempts, and was more amused than intrigued.

"Perhaps I should have mentioned that I was elbow-deep in manure only a few minutes ago?" she said with an apologetic smile.

His eyes going wide, Attlan dropped her hand and spun around to spit and gag violently on the ground behind him. Despite her obvious remorse at not alerting his friend, Sylfie couldn't help but laugh at the spectacle before her.

"Serves you right, you letch," Rolan muttered with a grin. Reaching down he picked up his sister's basket and began to escort her back through the main gates.

All confidence gone, Attlan put on a sullen look and soon followed. As they walked, Sylfie chattered on about the current events and local gossip. Rolan was surprised to learn that the Dunmer he'd met during his hastened visit over two years ago had gone on to begin restorations of a holy order of knights. Apparently he'd begun collecting the relics of Pelinal Whitestrake not long after Rolan had left.

"I had heard rumors of as much in Kvatch, but had not given them much credence," he admitted.

"Well, Azrael isn't the only local celebrity we have in Anvil now," Sylfie chuckled impishly.

His brow furrowing, Rolan looked to his sister for clarification.

"Mother's been dying to talk to you for some time," she continued cryptically. "Father's been more amused by the bits he's heard, but I'm afraid she hasn't been so amiable to things. But it's amazing to think that another great defender of the people and slayer of monsters has come to reside in our fair city!"

After sharing a look of confusion with his friend, Rolan set a more firm tone to his voice before asking, "Sylfie, whatever _are_ you going on about?"

Turning in place, a grinning Sylfie looked him in the eye even as she continued to walk backwards towards their home. She clasped her hands behind her back and put on a look of eternal innocence as she answered his question with one of her own.

"The Two Fool Bretons, Rolan? Surely you could have devised a better name for your little business than _that_?" she laughed.

Freezing in place, Rolan dropped the basket of fruit along with his jaw. Next to him, Attlan only grinned with pride and renewed confidence.

**Present…**

_Noise._

Rolan's head rolled onto one side as he heard the clash of metal on metal and shouts of anger coming from the other end of the room. A familiar grunt and cursing combination brought his mind back to focus. He blinked his eyes over and over, trying to clear his vision as much as possible given the circumstances.

Again he heard the sounds of battle coming from the distance. Though slightly more coherent than he'd been previously he still could not see much beyond his own person as the walls and pillars around him dissolved into a void of shapeless color.

_Taste._

His lips pursed as a bitter flavor trickled through his tongue. The taste was familiar but difficult to discern given the amount of blood still present in his mouth. A look down to his hands, however, showed he had been holding an opened vial.

A potion?

Yes, he remembered reaching for a potion in his belt-pouch just before losing consciousness. Apparently his will had been strong enough to force his body to continue the action even after his mind had succumbed to darkness. Impressive that.

Unfortunately the elixir had not been enough to heal his wounds from what he could tell. His limbs still felt as if they were moving through needles and thick sand each time he tried to shift them. Also, the flow of blood from his side wound had only slowed but not stopped completely. To compound his misfortune, the vial in his hand had been the last of his healing stores. Still far too weak to even attempt to cast a spell, he thought on what other options he had.

_Realization._

Using all his strength, Rolan turned his head and searched the area around him. After a few moments he found what he was looking for when he spotted the body of an Orc female dressed in heavy Orcish armor.

She was lying several feet away from him, quite dead, her chest still smoldering from his thunderbolt attack. Near her body was a claymore of Daedric design. Covering almost half of the blade, Rolan's blood had begun to pool around the weapon and he was unable to suppress a shudder as he remembered the feel as the edge pierced his side.

Tearing his attention away from her discarded sword, Rolan focused instead on her own belt. A small pouch had been torn open during their scuffle and he could see several vials of what he hoped were restorative potions scattered nearby.

If he could just get to them…

Rolan took a deep breath and braced himself for the pain he knew was coming. Then, with as much care as he could muster, the mage threw himself from his sitting position and fell on his side. While he did manage to cross most of the distance between him and his prize in the attempt the pain had been far more excruciating than he could ever have anticipated.

Before he was able to extend his arm towards the Orc corpse, the pain shuddered through, overwhelming him. Every muscle in his body tensed as he tried to fight off the feeling, but, in the end, he succumbed.

_Darkness…_

**1 week ago…**

"Focus your mind, mage Beryan," Master Traven reminded the young half-Altmer. "Your body instinctively knows how it is supposed to function and that inherent knowledge will aid you. It is important to remember, however, that while all species are fundamentally similar there are minor nuances in how our individual systems function. Hence it is futile to attempt to force your own will upon a person of a differing race. Instead merely assist their own body in repairing itself as it would over time. You are merely accelerating the process."

Attlan sighed – not for the first time – and placed his hand over the Argonian sailor's knee once again. Sitting beside him, Rolan looked upon his friend's attempts with great interest.

Restoration magic was the one field Rolan had yet to fully comprehend. While it had proven simple enough to heal himself without the aid of Alchemical methods, whenever he head attempted to heal another, the results were always less than compelling. After only a week's instruction from Master Traven, however, he had gained a new understanding and appreciation for the craft. Even so, he had found healing people of other races – especially those of the beast races – as difficult as Attlan had. Both mages, typically looked upon with awe by their fellow initiates, had actually fallen behind the others in this regard.

Master Traven had reassured them that such difficulties were typical for mages who studied offensive magic as their primary resources. Rolan was not sure if the Hallmaster had taken his friend and he under his own wing because of his relationship with the Ulfson family or out of some other, less nepotistic reason. That most of the others were being instructed by Carahil – while extremely capable, she did not have Traven's helpful demeanor – was a fact that had ensured he and his friend would receive more glares than they had become accustomed to.

"Thank you for your patience, good sir," Traven said to the Argonian sailor standing next to him. "With a little luck you knee should trouble you no more."

"This one does not mind the wait," the reptilian man hissed softly. "This one appreciates the help."

As he looked with intent on Attlan's progress, Rolan began to see as the other mage sent forth multiple tendrils of magicka into his subject's right knee. Gently, the tentacles fused into the bone and sinew as they spread their healing powers. He could see Attlan strain to _not_ force his will into the spell, but instead wait patiently as the Argonian's own body took hold of the mystical energy to speed its own recovery. Only periodically did he guide the forces working to repair the damaged cartilage in the knee, and even then it was with the gentlest of touches.

After several grueling minutes, the half-Altmer let out a long breath and removed his hand from the limb. With a sneering grin, the sailor flexed the appendage several times before chuckling with glee.

"It is healed!" he exclaimed in gratitude. "This one has not felt such relief in many days!"

"Well done, mage Beryan," Traven congratulated.

Letting out another sigh, Attlan responded, "It's almost like picking a lock. You have to use subtle movements or…"

"Indeed," the Hallmaster nodded. "Force will accomplish nothing in Restoration magic. Instead you must use patience and a gentle caress. And a willing recipient does not hurt either."

"Could a subject reject the healing of another?" Rolan asked in surprise.

Traven nodded, "Just as with all magic, if their will is strong enough, then it is possible to push back the spell. In times past spies for the Empire were trained in such techniques to ensure their captors could not heal any wounds inflicted, either by their enemies or their own hands."

"To choose death in such a way," Rolan muttered, "seems… wasteful."

With a smile, Attlan nudged him, "Haven't you ever believed in anything that was worth dying for, Rolan?"

"Besides gold, have _you_?" Rolan shot back.

Grinning, Attlan punched his friend in the arm.

"That is enough for today," Traven announced. "You have both done well in your tasks and the sun will be setting soon."

The two initiates stood and dusted themselves off. Rolan's backside was more than a little sore from sitting for so many hours. Traven had brought them to Anvil's docks to provide healing services to the local sailors. The myriad of ailments had taught them much of the art of Restoration. And despite Attlan's numerous complaints, they had provided their services free of charge.

All their exertions had left the two mages drained, however, and they were both looking forward to engaging in some recreational activities. Although the combination of Attlan and free-time was slightly disconcerting to Rolan, he supposed his friend was just as tired as he was and would not seek to encumber them with too much trouble.

"Will you two be spending your evening at the Ulfson home or shall you return to the guild hall?" Traven asked as the trio neared the city gate.

"If it's alright with you, Hannibal, my wife has requested my son and his companion's presence at dinner tonight," Radaam Ulfson surprised them all by speaking. Rolan's wide-shouldered father stood on the steps leading into the city with his arms crossed over his chest and a large grin on his face. The young mage couldn't help but smile back at his father.

"That would be fine, my friend," Traven conceded as he shook Radaam's offered hand. "But how long have you been waiting there?"

"Only just now," Radaam answered. "I had heard rumor that there were a couple of inept magisters causing all sorts of mischief out on the docks."

Both Attlan and Rolan chuckled as Traven grinned back.

"I would like to think I helped keep their damage to a minimum," Traven said.

"One can only hope," Radaam chuckled.

The two men walked off into the city, chatting as they did. Before they were out of earshot, his father looked back over his shoulder and reminded Rolan what time his mother would be serving dinner. As if he had forgotten?

Attlan and he walked in the other direction, towards the lighthouse on the southern shore of the city. When he was sure they were alone and away from eavesdropping ears, the half-Altmer mage finally spoke.

"What do you know of Whitmond Farm?" he asked.

Narrowing his eyes, Rolan asked, "Why? What have you been up to _this_ time?"

Eyes full of innocence, Attlan shrugged.

"Attlan," Rolan prompted.

"What do you know about it?" his friend asked again.

With a sigh, Rolan answered, "All I know is that it was rebuilt only in the last few years, and the current owner is a widow of sorts."

"Not a widow," Attlan said with a grin.

"What are you on about, Attlan?"

"A small, and potentially lucrative situation," his avaricious friend smirked. "The owner's name is Maeva, or Maeva the Buxom as she is known to the sailors, and apparently her husband abandoned her to the farm."

Again narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Rolan asked, "How is that potentially lucrative?"

"It would seem that before he left, Bjalfi – her ex-husband – took with him a family heirloom of hers," Attlan explained.

"And she is willing to pay to have the item returned to her?" Rolan finished.

"She's willing to put up her entire dowry to get the heirloom back."

Rolan crossed his arms and leaned back against the lighthouse wall as he considered the situation. He assumed Attlan already knew where to locate her wayward husband, but locating and retrieving the item in question were two very different things. Chances were this Bjalfi would not be willing to part with the item if he were willing to risk his ex-wife's ire in taking it in the first place. Still, if the task were so simple, then why had no one collected it already? Also, if Maeva was willing to pay so well for the item, then why had her husband not simply taken the offered gold?

"There is something you are not telling me," Rolan accused.

In response, the tall mage coughed uncomfortably and looked away. When he ruffled his fingers through his hair, Rolan's suspicions were confirmed and amplified.

"There is _much_ you are not telling me!" Rolan exclaimed.

Sighing loudly, Attlan informed him, "Well, it would seem that Bjalfi the Contemptible has joined a local gang of marauders-"

"Marauders?!"

"-and the heirloom is a specially crafted mace with powerful magical enchantments."

"What?!" he shouted. "Attlan, are you insane?"

"We've handled worse before, haven't we?" the other mage argued.

Rolan barked a laugh as he shook his head, "Hardly!"

"What about the vampires at Ninendava, or the bandits at Sercen, and the ogres Weatherleah?" Attlan pressed.

"And each of those times we were almost killed!"

"Yes, but we survived well enough, didn't we? Come on, Rolan, what could go wrong?"

It was Rolan's turn to sigh.

**Present…**

_Illumination._

Rolan's eyes opened again as he heard the cries of a man. As the world came back into focus he could sense the remnants of a powerful illumination spell dissipating. Instinctively he knew the spell was Attlan's doing, and he smiled as the sounds of metal clashing against metal were renewed as the two combatants increased the vigor of their attacks. One of the men grunted and Rolan heard as a wooden object collided with armor plating.

He blinked his eyes several times and gritted his teeth in preparation for his task. With his right arm, he reached out and pulled his prone form across the stone floor. The going was easier thanks to the lubrication his bleeding wound had spilled beneath him. Even so, each inch he progressed was pure agony and it was a miracle to him that he did not lose consciousness once more.

After what seemed like hours, he managed to pull himself close enough to the Orc woman's corpse to rummage through her pouch of potions. Sifting through the various vials, he tried to determine what their purposes were first by inspecting their color and then their scent. Healing potions were usually earthy in odor due to the typical ingredients which went into them.

Fortunately, it didn't take him long to find one that would suit his needs and he uncorked the small elixir and drank greedily. Initially he thought his assumption was incorrect when he did not feel the potion's effects. A moment later, however, the familiar sensations of warmth and mending wounds filled him.

First the wound on his head closed and the flow of blood slowed to a trickle. His rib injury did not fully heal unfortunately, though the bleeding did decrease considerably. But it was no longer a mortal wound, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

Magic was still beyond him and when Rolan tried to rise from his lying position the whole world seemed to spin uncontrollably. Barely withholding a severe bout of vomiting, he collapsed back onto the hard, slick stone floor.

He grunted in frustration as he felt his eyes closing yet again…

**Two days ago…**

"You sound as if the guildhalls have some sinister agenda, Hannibal," Radaam chided. "I can not believe it is as bad as all that."

With a lamenting smile, Master Traven replied, "Perhaps 'sinister' is too strong a word, my friend. However I can not help but feel it would be better to admit initiates to the Arcane University more quickly."

"Why not let them continue to learn all they can from the individual guildhalls before they reach the University?" Syrah asked as she refilled the hallmaster's glass of wine.

Rolan could not help but feel as if they were playing out a familiar dinner conversation once again. As they sat in the dinning room of the Ulfson manor near the end of their meal he listened intently as his parents continued their discussion with his senior. Beside him Attlan was busy entertaining Alistar and Halan with feats of Telekinesis as Sylfie watched, giggling all the while.

In the corner Raji lay curled up and nestled with Tes and Arah, the two Clannfear juveniles belonging to his younger and youngest brother respectively. Used as they were to the heat of the Deadlands, often times they found what was comfortable to humans as rather chilly. This evening, however, the three creatures were sleeping in luxury as the fireplace fire warmed them to a comfortable temperature.

"Ah, but that is my point, Lady Ulfson," the slightly inebriated mage said with a friendly smile. "It is _what_ they are learning that bothers me so."

"Aren't all instructions standardized?" Radaam asked.

"In a perfect world, perhaps," Traven sighed. "In truth, the hallmasters, for better or worse, have much more leeway in terms of instruction. There are many who use this freedom to their advantage to imbue malleable minds with their own personal ideologies and philosophies."

"So you are mostly worried they will pick up _bad_ habits along with their instruction?" his father reasoned.

Over the brim of his glass, Traven muttered, "_Very_ bad habits."

"The Archmage is a good man," Radaam asserted, "I doubt he would allow potentially damaging ideals to be instilled into the initiates."

"He _is_ a good man," Traven agreed, "but he is far too amiable, in my opinion. Certain practices are allowed to continue even though they often sully the image of the Guild in the eyes of the people. In the past these people were kept in check though stringent guidelines and vigorous enforcement. But now we have become lax in our oversight and that is a dangerous stance to have."

Shifting uncomfortably, Rolan peered to his side but breathed a sigh of relief as he realized Attlan apparently hadn't heard Traven's words. In fact he seemed to be ignoring the conversation completely as he elicited more applause from his younger brothers and more smiles from his sister.

Master Traven continued to argue his position, "Magicka is a seductive power garnered by a select few. We are already looked upon with suspicion by the eyes of those who do not have the ability to manipulate it as we can."

"A vast majority, unfortunately," Syrah sighed. "I couldn't imagine what that would be like, to not sense the energies of the earth and influence them with no more than a thought."

"Yes," the Master agreed. "It is a great power, and with that power comes great responsibility. We owe it to the people to hold ourselves to a higher standard than any common man. We should not allow a small minority of our brethren to abuse that power merely for their own gain. Instead the Guild should return to the days of old, when it was an institution in _service_ of the people and worked for the good of all, not just its own members."

"Strong words, to some," his mother commented.

"But words that need to be said, nonetheless," Radaam added.

Syrah nodded her agreement.

"Give it time, Hannibal," she said as she reached across the table to clasp his beefy hand in her smaller one. "You will be in a position to institute that change soon enough."

Traven shook his head, though and said, "Not many of my brothers share my views."

"I do," Rolan blurted before he realized.

In unison, the three of them turned to look at him as if for the first time and Rolan could not help but shrink slightly from their surprised gazes. Swallowing hard, he fought to meet the stare of his elder mage.

Eventually, Traven's surprise was replaced by a warm smile.

"Yes, I thought you would, Rolan," he said.

From his position beside Traven, Radaam smiled with pride. Rolan blushed as he felt his mother's arms wrap around him and squeeze tight.

"Mother," he grumbled.

"Oh, hush!" she whispered in his ear. "You've gotten so big I can hardly put my arms around you as it is. Let a mother remember her son as he was and indulge the woman who gave birth to you."

With an obviously embarrassed smile, Rolan leaned his head against his mother's and sighed. His embarrassment increased tenfold as he heard his siblings chime in.

With Attlan leading the charge, all of them were looking at him with wide, inspired eyes as they all exclaimed, "Awwwwwwwww!"

Dropping his head forward, a whimpering Rolan banged his forehead hard against the table.

**Present…**

_Will._

Rolan gasped as he opened his eyes again. His breathing had become raspy and ragged. Each inhalation was taking more and more effort, and he knew it would not be long before he passed out once more.

Steeling his resolve and gathering all his will, the young mage lifted himself up off the ground. Through sheer determination he fought off the wave of dizziness and waited for it to pass before hoisting himself up to his feet.

He ignored the pain.

He ignored the blood.

He focused only on reaching his friend before it was too late.

Looking up, Rolan saw the battle scene as Bjalfi locked his weapon with Attlan's. Appearing on the verge of collapse, his friend had crossed his sword and staff in front of him and caught the Nord's mace. Obviously using what little strength he had left, the half-Altmer mage was struggling to hold back the dangerous touch of the enchanted weapon.

Bjalfi's features were hidden to Rolan as the Ebony-armored marauder's back turned to face him.

Rolan reached up into his arm and removed the enchanted bracer that had been limiting his magical abilities. Feeling a surge of magicka swelling around him, he knew it was not enough to allow him to summon one of his companions from the planes of Oblivion. It was enough, however, to summon a weapon.

With all the care he could muster, Rolan stepped forward towards the Nord's back and called upon the dark forces of Oblivion. In moments a sword of Daedric design appeared in a cloud of smoke. Warm to the touch, he closed his hand tightly around the handle, lest the blade slip from his tentative clasp.

As he closed on the distracted marauder Rolan reversed his grip on the handle while he raised the sword high over his head. When he was just a few steps away, Attlan's strength finally gave way and the tall mage collapsed backwards against a nearby wall. Even as Bjalfi celebrated his impending victory, the distressed mage spotted his friend and locked eyes with him for a brief second.

They both knew Rolan was still too far away to be of any assistance and if he hastened his steps then the chance of Bjalfi hearing his approach increased tenfold. It would be up to his friend to buy himself more time.

No sign of concern showed on Attlan's face as he turned up to face the imposing Nord.

Smiling wickedly, the half-Altmer spoke, "Your first mistake was to defy me."

His striking arm held its position as the Nord spoke back, taking the bait, "Silly little elf mage doesn't know when he's beaten."

"Your second mistake was to anger me!" Attlan continued, undaunted.

Raising his arm higher, Bjalfi obviously intended to use all his might to strike down Attlan with one final blow.

"Your _last_ mistake was to think you could _ever_ win, because…!"

Using gravity along with his remaining strength, Rolan brought down the blade through the one opening in Bjalfi's armor he could find… the neck. As Daedric metal pierced through flesh and bone as a knife would through warm butter he twisted the blade, further obliterating the Nord's internal organs.

"… the Two Fool Bretons will never fall so easily," Rolan whispered in the dying man's ear.

The marauder released one last bloody gurgle before dropping to his knees and falling to the floor in a heap. Rockshatter, the Dwemer-designed mace they had been contracted to reacquire dropped to the stone tiles with a loud clang that echoed through the empty halls of the ruined fort.

From his position on the floor, Attlan looked up at him and chuckled with delight. Rolan returned his friend's smile as he felt his legs give way.

As he fell to the floor alongside Bjalfi, time seemed to slow to a crawl. He looked on curiously as every muscle in Attlan's face slowly gave way to a look of horror.

_Why is he so distressed?_ Rolan wondered.

Sound seemed lost to him as well, and even as his friend shouted out words, Rolan could not comprehend them. As Attlan moved in slow motion and reached for him he felt no worry or fear.

There was nothing to be concerned about. Nothing was wrong anymore. Nothing would ever be wrong again. In every sense of the word, he was at peace.

It was as if he were gliding downwards, really. Peacefully and gracefully he envisioned his form easing to the ground as a feather in a gentle breeze. When he did hit the stone, he felt no pain. In fact, all pain seemed lost to him and only a welcome relaxation remained as his body settled into a deep and tranquil slumber.

His smiled remained as the world turned black…

* * *

Rolan woke suddenly in a fit of hacking coughs and he doubled over himself as he tried to gain control of his own body. As the episode subsided, he gasped for breath over and over.

Confused and shaken, he looked up to see Attlan kneeling beside him. When their eyes met, his friend fell backward and crawled away. Next to him, a bloodied dagger skirted off into the shadows.

Covered in sweat and breathing just as heavily as he, the half-Altmer mage still had a look of horror on his face. Slowly he closed his mouth and swallowed hard, but said not a word.

Rolan tried to discern the look on his friend's face as he rose to his knees. Was it fear… joy… or guilt? With so many emotions playing across the other mage's face, it was difficult to decide.

"Attlan?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

In response, Attlan continued to stare at him as his chest rose and fell in quick succession with each breath.

Amazed that he felt no pain at all – in fact, he felt strangely energize – Rolan looked down to his side and touched the spot where he had been wounded. All traces of the injury were gone and not even a scar remained as testament. Oddly his entire body felt refreshed and the young mage wondered if he had ever felt so good in his life.

"You healed me?" Rolan exclaimed with pride. "Attlan, you saved my life!"

But his friend did not share in his joy but instead continued to stare at him in stunned silence.

Why was he acting so strange?

Feeling perfectly invigorated, Rolan stood up and looked around.

Still wondering at his friend's bizarre behavior, Rolan reached into himself and summoned one of his companions from Oblivion. It was strange, initially, because the link did not feel the same as it always had, but soon enough he reached through the barrier between the two worlds and called to Toth.

In a blaze of heat and the stink of sulfur, the Daedroth appeared before him. Rolan smiled at his friend but fell back on his heels as the gator-like creature looked at him and growled.

His eyes going wide, the young mage stepped back and reasserted his dominance through their link. Rather than receiving the typical response of recognition, he found only confusion and instinctive anger.

"Toth?" Rolan called out to his friend of many years. "Whatever is the matter? It is Rolan, my friend. Do you not recognize me?"

From his place on the floor, Attlan slammed shut his open mouth and looked at the horned creature with terror.

The Daedroth took a step towards him, and, for a moment Rolan thought he would actually attack, but after a few tense minutes, he eventually settled back and relaxed. Through their link, Rolan could feel Toth's familiar eagerness to serve.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Rolan instructed his friend, "Toth, make sure there are no more marauders lying in wait, my friend. Clear a path to the exit if necessary."

Immediately his friend bounded off with glee, and he could sense the creature's hope that there would indeed be some fun ahead.

Rolan shook his head and chuckled before turning back to the stunned and bewildering Attlan.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "Did the healing take much out of you?"

Swallowing hard, Attlan shook his head.

"Well, we should go, then," Rolan said as he reached down. "Maeva will be glad to hear that we retrieved her heirloom and we may even be able to negotiate a bonus for our troubles."

His intention was to snap his friend out of his peculiar stupor, but his words seemed to have the opposite effect. Attlan did eventually, albeit gingerly, take his hand and allow himself to be helped up. Once on his feet, the other mage gripped tightly to Rolan's hand and came to stand within inches of his face.

"I had no choice," he finally croaked. His tone was oddly apologetic.

Putting on a comforting smile, Rolan replied, "I am fine, my friend. You saved my life, and I thank you for that. There is nothing more to worry about. I am fine. _You saved my life._"

Though his face appeared unconvinced, Attlan did finally nod.

Shaking his head one last time at his friend's disturbing mood swings, Rolan followed the other mage out of the room and towards the exit. So distracted was he by Attlan that he never noticed Bjalfi's armor had been removed and his chest cut open. Neither did he realize there was not a trace of blood on the floor.

* * *

**Author's Note:** It was a real struggle to get everything I wanted into this chapter. In the end several items were left out for the sake of flow. The format is a little different from the standard structure, but it was the only way I could think of to fit everything in and have it make sense. I'm not really a fan of jumping through time in a single chapter, but in the end I think it worked out okay.

Oh, and FYI, there will be only one more chapter in "For Love of Magic" after which this part of the story will come to a close so that I can focus on the other four characters in "the Five Heroes" storyline. In addition to "Sister of Shadows" I'll be stepping up with "Will of the Nine" (working title) which I've kind of hinted at already in Rolan's travels. But don't worry, Rolan shall return both as a supporting character and later in his own storyline to continue his quest towards Archmage.


	9. Chapter 9: Shadowy Reunions

**Chapter 9:** Shadowy Reunions

"Does something about this feel off to you?" the half-Altmer mage asked as he steered his mount closer to his companion. "I have a nagging suspicion our _client_ isn't telling us everything."

Looking back over his shoulder briefly, his Breton compatriot replied, "I agree on both counts. He appears far too nervous about being on this road."

Rolan glanced over at his friend's face as the other mage turned to look at the rider trailing behind them. He was a thoroughly unimposing Redguard, claiming the name Samus Reim, and just arrived from Hammerfell. Several days ago he approached them asking for escort to the Imperial City. They accepted the offer for several reasons.

Firstly, Attlan made the point this would likely be the last time they could earn extra finances before entering the Arcane University. With the rules of the University neither of the pair thought they would find further opportunities for profit. And, much as Rolan hated to admit it, he did enjoy the comforts their additional income provided them.

Second, Rolan hoped their minor adventure would pull Attlan out of his strange behavior. For the last several months his friend seemed completely out of sorts. It all began the day after they returned Maeva's heirloom mace. Attlan did not speak to him for most of the day and for the rest of the week his half-Altmer friend seemed to be avoiding contact. When confronted he evaded Rolan's questions and fought to change the subject, denying any guilt. Something in Attlan's eyes bothered Rolan, however, and though he did let the subject pass outwardly, it still plagued his thoughts.

Finally, it gave them reason to break away from his mother's insistent clutches. Repairs to the roof, neglected tidying up of her alchemy laboratory, and a lengthy – and thoroughly guilt-inducing – speech about how his long absence affected his relationship with his younger brothers all ensured they remained. When one excuse failed, she always seemed to have another waiting in line. Although Rolan loved her deeply and was glad how easily his whole family came to accept Attlan as a surrogate member, they both knew it was time to move on. If they were to make the start of the new semester, then their time in Anvil needed to come to an end. And it seemed the Nine answered his prayers when Samus appeared at their doorstep.

According to the Redguard their reputation as mages-for-hire reached his ears soon after touching shore. Claiming to be a merchant of some repute in his homeland the dark skinned man offered a generous sum if they agreed to provide him safe passage to the Imperial City. He gave them no reason as to why he required their protection, but implied he carried precious cargo which may entice bandits.

Both were skeptical at his story, but when he produced a large coinpurse heavy with gold, neither of them could resist the temptation. Later that night Attlan surprised Rolan when he tallied the payment to nearly equal their current fortune.

So there they were, three of them traveling by moonlight – at Samus' insistence – a day's worth of riding behind them and still three more ahead. Laden with supplies, since their client also insisted they not stop at Kvatch or Skingrad on their way, the trio meandered on with eyes intent on the road ahead. Before leaving, Rolan made a point of removing the bracer under his robes restricting his Conjuration abilities. Off to their right, hidden in the shadows, Raji kept pace with them. His link to the Clannfear kept him apprised of anything her heightened senses might detect.

They held no torches so Attlan, acting as a guide, wore the Hunter's Ring he acquired during their excursion into Sercen many years ago. Rolan's enchanted cowl chased the night's shadows away as the hidden details of the land came forth in a bluish gaze. The lack of true color bothered him, but he coped. In addition they carried the Chameleon enchanted rings they negotiated from the crazy exile Ancotar. Swords at their hips and staves in hand neither of them cared to take any chances as Samus' trepidation put them both on edge.

When a lone rider came charging towards them at top speed, they all caught their breath. His hand tightened around the staff and he reflexively began preparing several defensive spells in his mind. As the rider loomed closer, he narrowed his eyes and tensed for an attack.

When Rolan recognized the rider as the local Black Horse courier, however, they relaxed. Still, the encounter proved troubling and did little to lessen the tension.

"Maybe you should take up the rear," Attlan whispered. "Something still doesn't feel right."

Nodding in agreement, Rolan held up his reigns and slowed his pace until Samus passed by. After allowing some distance he stepped back into line. Raji remained parallel to him at all times.

Nearly an hour passed without incident, then, suddenly, he nearly shuddered off his saddle as Raji's senses went on high alert. Like a cold wave sweeping over him he felt his companion's fear, excitement, and rage ripple through his emotions. Gulping down hard, he fought to regain control – something which proved strangely difficult as of late.

Using a technique taught by his father Rolan relayed his companion's warning to Attlan telepathically. Immediately the half-Altmer mage panned his head back and forth, searching for any sign of danger, but found nothing.

Just as he was about to question Raji, Rolan felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach as every hair on his body stood on end. His breathing increased along with his heartbeat and sweat started to drip down his back sending a chill down his spine. Licking his lips he found his mouth dry as a bone and strained not to cough as cobwebs seemed to drift down his throat. A sense of resentment and anger assaulted him.

A quick mental sweep confirmed it did not originate through the link with the Clannfear.

What was it, then? What could affect him so?

A feeling… a voice?

Distant, but distinctly familiar. Something from his past.

Ninendava flashed into his mind.

So engulfed in his thoughts, Rolan never remembered drawing his sword, but when he looked down he realized his hand held it at the ready. Up ahead, Attlan held his much the same. Samus continued to look back and forth at the both of them.

Summoning up a spell, Rolan called upon the spells of Mysticism and cast a spell to detect the presence of living souls. His skill still lacked severely in the school, however, and his sight only extended for a few yards in all directions.

Still, the presence persisted.

There was _something_ out there, he just could not _see_ it!

He closed his eyes and focused on the sensation, trying to discern its location. After several tense minutes he popped open his eyes and turned his head to the left. Crouching atop a rock, blending in almost perfectly with the foliage was a figure… holding a dagger raised high.

With speed fueled by adrenaline, Rolan raised his staff and fired off a blast of Frost. The spell missed its mark as the hooded figure dodged backward and tumbled off into the boulders. It was gone before the discarded dagger clattered against the rocks.

Impossible reflexes…

"Raji, stay with Samus!" he shouted after urging his mount off the road. The horse balked at his command to trample through the dark brush lining the roadway, but he regained control and steered it back towards his intended trail.

They plowed through, trampling the small underbrush and tearing a path into the shadowy beyond. As he approached the source of the presence it receded, maintaining a constant distance from him. Thundering through the wilderness beside him, Attlan pulled in close.

Trees and large shrubbery shot past them as they pounded on. Several times Rolan found himself angling his horse away from large rock formations dotting the landscape. The source of the presence seemed to intentionally use the jutting stones as an attempt at evasion. Clever indeed.

Without a word, Rolan pointed his shortsword forward, indicating the direction of their quarry. Nodding in understanding the half-Altmer mage steered his horse away and whispered an enchantment. Seconds later Rolan watched as his companion zipped ahead at an almost impossible speed. Soon after, flashes of lightning and crackles of thunder echoed through the night.

Digging his heels in, Rolan whispered an enchantment of his own and struggled to control his mount as their speed nearly tripled in the blink of an eye. It took him less than a minute to catch up to his friend.

He almost did not believe his eyes when he saw a figure clad in black leather armor _running_ several yards alongside Attlan and his horse. Two tendrils of black cloth – a scarf of some sort? – trailed behind the runner. It amazed him to see the figure keeping pace with Attlan's magically enhanced steed.

As he closed on them, Rolan could feel the presence growing stronger. When he held his stride at only a few yards behind the figure a whispering voice sounded in his head. Angry and spiteful, the voice shouted all manner of obscenities at him in a Daedric tongue. Frustrated, Rolan still could not discern _what_ the voice was.

Following his friend's lead, Rolan fired off several blasts of frost at the runner, aiming for the figure's legs. He did not intend to kill the person, merely slow them down or stop them altogether. There were several questions he intended to ask.

With impossibly nimble legs, the runner dodged every blast either by leaping high or dodging sideways. The armor had to be enchanted but he could not sense its magicka in the slightest. Even at his distance and his elevated adrenaline levels some trace of it should show to his magically attuned senses, but each mental probe proved fruitless. It was then Rolan recalled hearing his mother speak of methods to mask enchantments, much like the bracer he normally wore to dull his Conjuring abilities, but she said the art lay lost to the ages long ago. Could the runner's armor be that old? Or did they have resources the Guild did not?

Attlan caught his attention with a wave of his hand. As they continued to thunder across the dark black of the night Rolan's enchanted vision caught sight of Attlan's gestures. His friend pointed at the runner then swept one hand low and up high in a straight line. Rolan understood the other mage's meaning immediately.

Heart pounding and sweat continuing to slide down, he refocused his thoughts and chanted another spell of frost. Unlike the others however, he had no intention of striking his target with this spell, merely the area around them. Attlan's skills in area-effect spells were, for once, lacking in this area, but luckily Rolan's own were quite adept… well, as far as frost anyhow.

The magicka rising in him, Rolan felt the sense of euphoria as the spell came to fruition immediately before he released it in the direction of the runner. Just as before, the figure leapt forward, intending to avoid the spell, but they both heard a woman's scream pierce the night air when the area around her exploded in freezing icicles.

Legs severely impaired by the shock of the sudden cold, the runner collapsed and continued to tumble forward, momentum carrying her for several yards. When the figure finally did stop, Rolan pulled his mount up close and leapt off the saddle with sword drawn and staff at the ready. Before he even neared the body, however, Attlan unleashed a blast of lightning at her. The force of the spell threw the woman even further ahead of him and flipped her over so she lay face up.

Turning in anger, Rolan shouted, "That is enough! They are no threat to anyone now!"

Obviously frustrated Attlan nonetheless kept quiet, but he leveled his staff at the unconscious person and maintained a good distance.

Rolan looked back down at the body and found two daggers lying several feet to either side. The runner's momentum or Attlan's spell must have sent them flying as well. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the woman – for this close up there was no doubt that the runner _was_ a woman – still breathed life.

Her armor was strange, unlike any other leather armor he'd seen prior. The black dye held no imperfections and he couldn't help but wonder how one even went about dyeing leather. Even more bizarre the shadows themselves seemed to cling to its material and almost seemed to caress her limp form. Strapped across her chest were several throwing knives, which he quickly removed and tossed aside.

It was surprising how little she stirred as he continued his inspection.

The Daedric voice in his head had not stopped its endless string of curses and shouts of rage even after the woman fell and Rolan was determined to find the source of the voice. Initially he thought her to be a Daedra of some kind, but now he realized it unlikely. Pulling back her hood revealed the face of a slightly gaunt young Breton woman… or girl perhaps. Looking at her size and figure he surmised she was no older than perhaps sixteen or seventeen at most.

He searched every pocket or concealed fold in her armor still trying to find the source. Finally, when he turned her body over with an unceremonious flop did Rolan find what he sought.

An intricately designed dagger lay tucked in the small of her back, partly wrapped in now ripped cloth, glowing dully in the dark, and with swirling mists of flames dancing within the blade. When he saw it, the voice in his head shouted with renewed rage.

Gingerly, Rolan found his fingers moving toward the handle and, before he even realized, he drew the blade from its place under her belt. Breathing heavily he brought the weapon up closer to his eyes. Immediately he knew what he beheld.

Roaring wrathful words the voice resounded in his mind. He felt the dagger pushing against him, as if trying to attack him through his touch, but the special bonds of his bloodline kept the sinister force out of his body and contained. The smell of sulfur shot through his nostrils, heat welled in the palm of his hand, and the very air around him seemed to glow an eerie crimson.

With disgust, he whispered an ancient spell known only to his family and threw the dagger behind him. The voice in his head fell further and further away till he heard it no more.

"Damn you, Mehrunes," he mumbled, "why now after so long?"

He heard Attlan's footsteps behind him but did not realize his friend's intentions until it was too late. Screaming in pain, the half-Altmer mage dropped to his knees as Rolan turned to see him holding the discarded blade in his hand.

Running to his friend, Rolan desperately fumbled with Attlan's fingers, trying to dislodge the dagger from his grasp. But whatever demonic magic attacked his friend held his hands tight to it.

Spitting out another curse to the Daedric Prince of Destruction, Rolan grabbed hold of Attlan's wrist and chanted once more. He directed the spell into his friend's body and felt relief when he realized the attack receded slowly but surely. Only a moment later it fell to the ground blade-first. Even though it dropped from only a few feet where Attlan held it the blade dug deep into the hard-packed earth, sending a tremor through the soil.

Rolan heard a distant rumbling laugh whispering in his mind.

"Is that what I think it is?" Attlan gasped.

"Mehrunes' Razor," Rolan confirmed.

"How in Oblivion did a Dark Brotherhood assassin get a hold of it?!" Attlan asked, still shaken and bewildered.

"Assassin?"

The half-Altmer nodded towards the unconscious woman, "She has the stink of death all around her and wears the armor of the Dark Brotherhood. Someone probably contracted her to kill Samus."

"I believe she came for me," Rolan said as he shook his head.

"You?" Attlan asked incredulously. "Why you?"

"Because of my family."

His friend's intent stare caused Rolan to look away.

"I think it's time you shared your family's dirty little secret, Rolan," Attlan said in a strange voice. "Haven't I earned that by now?"

Glad as he was to have his friend speaking to him in such familiar terms once more, Rolan wished Attlan had not chosen this particular conversation. Still, he did have a point. In the nearly seven years they knew each other, his friend always respected Rolan's secret, never pressing the issue till now. After all they experienced together, Rolan admitted the other mage deserved as much.

The assassin made both of them turn as she let out a pain-filled moan. Rolan stepped forward towards the woman and saw her begin to stir.

"Rope!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Nearly an hour later the small quartet nestled near a small fire. After returning with the assassin's bound body, Samus became hysterical to the point of lunging for Rolan's sword. He insisted they kill the woman immediately but Rolan maintained they needed to relay her to the proper authorities in Anvil. Attlan sided with the Redguard initially, but quickly grew irritated at the man's assertive nature. When he threatened to withhold their payment, the half-Altmer mage put the man to sleep with a powerful spell.

Now with two limp bodies to deal with, the mages decided to spend the night in the wild and return to Anvil at first light. After a vehement urging Attlan no longer cast any spells without his express approval Rolan suggested they find a patrolling Legion soldier to help them, but Attlan was intent on continuing their conversation. With all the righteousness drained from him, a dejected Rolan succumbed.

With Samus' snoring as an accompanying musical support, Rolan began his explanation.

"Several hundred years ago Thain Ulfson, one of my ancestors, became obsessed with Daedric lore. The stories he heard growing up were conflicted and disjointed, each race and religious sect having their own versions of just what exactly the Princes were. Eventually he came to study the ways of magicka, in an attempt to better understand them. However, when he sought the knowledge of the Daedric cults, his instructors always waylaid his studies. He became frustrated with their interference and left the Guild to seek the knowledge on his own.

"In time he found ancient texts – from various sources – containing instructions on summoning the Daedric Princes to the realm of Mundus," Rolan paused and let the information sink in.

"He was going to summon a Daedric Prince?" Attlan's eyes were wide.

"_All_ the Princes," Rolan corrected.

"Was he insane?"

Rolan could not help but smile at the question before answering, "According to my father, by that point his obsession had long ago overruled all sense of reason."

"So, yes?"

Rolan shrugged.

"The details are sketchy from this point on, but the general consensus seems to be that he discovered yet another spell to summon a being possibly more powerful than the Princes," Rolan continued before falling silent again. His brow knotted and he looked away from his friend then. He knew that by telling Attlan the next portion of the story he would be betraying the promise he made long ago to his father.

"What was he going to summon?" Attlan prompted.

"Lorkhan," Rolan whispered.

Attlan's eyes went wide at the muttered words.

"Lorkhan?" the half-Altmer mage whispered with awe. "The Trickster? Now I know he was insane. To think a mortal could ever-"

"He succeeded," Rolan interrupted.

It was Attlan's turn to fall silent.

"Lorkhan was a mere shadow of his original self, and perhaps that is why Thain was successful," Rolan sighed. "His success only drove him further into madness however and he thought he could actually bind the fallen Lorkhan to his will. But Lorkhan was not weak, and he turned the spell back upon Thain, thus binding _him_ instead.

"Something else happened in that moment as well… somehow, someway Thain touched a portion of that divine essence and from that point on his connection to Oblivion and its creatures surpassed that of any mortal – that mystical connection to the otherworldly plane forever amplified. His mortal blood was… tainted… or fused with the divine power of Lorkhan. All generations from then on have shared in this curse, although it is rare for the women of my family to possess the talent for summoning, we are all gifted in the use of magicka. But it is my very blood that allows me to call upon the denizens of Oblivion – without giving my loyalty to any Prince – for days on end with little to no effort. We are even gifted with the ability to cast spells of Daedric design."

Attlan nodded, "I thought that spell to bind the Razor seemed strange. The magicka didn't… taste right."

Rolan nodded, "It is one of the few spells my father allowed me to learn."

His friend mulled over the information for a while before asking, "So, what happened to Lorkhan? He couldn't have been too happy with Thain. I'm surprised your ancestor lived at all."

"In his already weakened state, he was injured just enough during the exchange that he could not fully complete the binding, and Thain was able to escape with his life. Soon after, Thain abandoned his research and used all his skills to mask himself and his lineage from Lorkhan's eyes. Still, even now we live in constant fear that Lorkhan will seek us out and exact his revenge."

"Even after hundreds of years?"

Rolan shrugged, "What is time to an immortal?"

The crackling fire made the only sounds for some time as the two mages remained deep in thought. To his right, Samus' snoring stopped at some point during their discussion, but Rolan could not recall exactly when. Looking to his left, the young mage noticed the assassin woman staring at him with wide and amazed eyes.

When did _she_ awaken?

Squinting his eyes, straining to see through the dim campfire light Rolan looked at the woman as if for the first time. Something seemed familiar about her. He could not discern what, but something began to itch in the back of his mind. Buried in his thoughts there was some memory trying to slither its way to the surface…

Attlan's voice pulled him from his reverie and Rolan put the woman out of his mind. Tied up as she was, what threat could she prove?

"I know telling me this couldn't have been easy for you," his friend lamented. "And I think it's time I shared my own secret with you."

At that moment, all thoughts of the familiar-seeming, skinny Breton girl vanished from Rolan's mind.

"You've always known that I have an affinity for what you call 'The Dark Arts,'" Attlan began.

He nodded.

"Do you remember our excursion into Sercen?" his friend asked.

Again, Rolan nodded.

Indeed how could he forget that night? It was the first time he ever found himself facing mortal opponents – with conscious minds and actual blood flowing through their veins. It was the first time he ever took a sentient life. It was also the day he acquired the enchanted elven shortsword at his hip.

Though there were many moments and reasons to remember that night, Rolan also recalled one other strange event.

"Hafalla," he whispered. The name of the Dunmer woman he killed that night. In all these years, Rolan never forgot that name or the gravity of his actions. But Attlan never did explain just how he knew the mer's name, only that she told him… _after_ her death.

_Even the dead can speak_, his friend told him following their encounter with the bandits. _Not many of the living world can be bothered with listening, though._

Attlan's eyebrows rose slightly when he heard the name spoken.

"You _do_ remember her, then?" his friend whispered back.

"She was the first… real person I ever killed," his voice thick with emotion, Rolan confirmed.

"She would have killed us both, if we'd given her the chance," Attlan asserted, and not for the first time.

Swallowing hard and blinking back tears, Rolan nodded, "I know, I know. The Nine only know how many lives she took before we stumbled upon her and her compatriots."

"But I never really explained just how I was able to learn her name," Attlan said, steering the conversation back on track.

"No, you did not."

Swallowing hard, his friend pressed on, "The dead… speak to me. I don't know how or why, but ever since I was a child the souls of the dead, even the long deceased have been drawn to me."

"But why?"

Attlan shrugged and stretched out on the narrow mat he used for bedding. Lying sideways, Rolan was still able to see the half-Altmer's face. Shadows from the still crackling fire danced along his friend's features, giving him a macabre appearance and darkening his normally handsome features.

"Sometimes they just want to be heard, by someone, anyone willing to listen. Others plead and beg for help, for some release because they can't find their way into the afterlife… if there is such a thing," Attlan sighed.

After a moment, he went on, "My… _talent_ was something the Nords in my hometown feared and resented. They said my soul was black and that my entire existence was an abomination. My father and mother tried to isolate me from the locals as much as possible. Inevitably I rebelled and ventured away from our farm. I felt myself being pulled toward the nearby cemetery. When the neighboring boys found me wandering there alone, they beat me within an inch of my life. I don't remember how I did it, but drowned in fear as I was, somehow I tapped into the souls of the dead lying there.

"When I woke all the boys were gone, and there was a reanimated corpse standing over me. It tried to speak to me, but couldn't. The mind and soul that lived inside it moved on long ago, and it was my will alone that gave it life again. I ran away from it, terrified with what I'd done, but wherever I went it always found me. No matter how many times I tried to hide, inevitably I found it stumbling in my direction. Eventually my mother discovered it and used her magic to destroy it. She never did tell my father, but the rumors in the village spread quickly," Attlan sighed and looked up to the stars above.

"My mother died a few years later," he continued eventually. "We all knew she would eventually. My father told me in time that her pregnancy was a difficult one and giving birth to me nearly killed her. And her body never quite recovered."

"Did she teach you to use magic?" Rolan asked quietly.

His friend nodded, but kept his eyes trained to the stars, "After the incident, she said it was important for me to understand magic. Though I never met them people told me her family is skilled in the mystical arts and my father also thought it was important for me to pursue that part of my heritage after she died. So when I told him I was ready to travel to Cyrodiil to study at the Arcane University, he supported me fully."

"When did he die?" Rolan surprised himself by asking.

Attlan turned to him then, astonished.

Rolan explained, "On the road to Skingrad you mentioned there is nothing left for you back home."

"Do you remember _everything_ I say?" his friend asked with a crooked grin.

"It is an easy day to remember," Rolan chuckled, "considering you managed to rob a thief right in front of his own eyes."

Attlan chuckled along with him, grinning wide, "Oh, I'd almost forgotten about that. But he deserved it, for interrupting my spectacular performance."

Rolan rolled his eyes at the memory.

The two friends remained quiet for some time, allowing a comfortable silence to fall upon them. A cool breeze blew, stirring the flames of the fire just a bit before dying down. Even the night was willing to allow them this moment it seemed, and Rolan could not help but feel grateful.

He was also glad that even now, knowing Attlan's dark talents, he still regarded the other man as his friend. There were no uneasy judgments in his mind and no moral quandaries. When he looked over the fire to the other mage, he saw what he had always seen… his friend. And with both their secrets revealed, there were no more barriers between them. Finally they could let go their fears and allow their friendship to continue.

When Attlan finally did speak again, his tone was much lighter, as if all previous discussion were forgotten, "Do you remember Ninendava?"

"Yes," Rolan answered with only a hint of disgruntlement.

"What happened to you that night?"

"Pardon?"

Attlan looked over to him once more before reiterating, "The look you had on your face back on the road was the same as that night. I remember when we left the ruins, you fell. But first you stared off into the North, like you were looking for something."

Rolan nodded, remembering the incident. After thinking for a moment he answered, "There must have been a Daedric shrine nearby."

"Why do you say that?"

"Whenever there is a strong Daedric presence, such as with the Razor, I am affected by it," he explained. "There must have been a particularly powerful energy in the North somewhere nearby. I felt as if a voice were calling me, almost beckoning me to it."

"Do all the Daedric Princes hate you so much? When I touched the Razor I could almost hear it screaming your name in rage."

Rolan shook his head, "Only some of them do. Whatever Lorkhan did to Thain, that remnant of him remains in my blood, and many of the Daedra have never been particularly partial to him."

"Nor have the Aedra, if memory serves," Attlan said.

"Technically Lorkhan _is_ one of the Aedra," Rolan replied, "but without their direct intervention he normally is not associated with the Nine."

"He's Aedra?"

"Aedra and Daedra are mortal-made distinctions given to those who took part in creation and those who did not, respectively," Rolan lectured. "The Aedra – or the original Eight as we know them – lent a part of themselves into the making of the realm we know as reality. Lorkhan gave a piece of himself as well, but was left broken after. Some speculate it was done intentionally by the Eight as retribution for tricking them into making Nirn."

"So that's why he's called The Trickster?" Attlan's question was mostly rhetorical. "That's more than most people know about Lorkhan."

Rolan shrugged, "Throughout the centuries my family has sought to understand him and his role in the universe. Considering we are eternally linked to him, it only seemed prudent."

"Hm, true," Attlan agreed. "So were you being controlled by a Daedric Prince when you gave away that damned tiara that we found there?"

Rolan's sigh carried the weight of the world upon it, "Will you _never_ absolve me of that?!"

"Absolution is for the worthy," his friend sneered. "Any man who gives away priceless artifacts to undeserving peasants is unworthy by definition."

Chuckling through Attlan's entire proclamation, Rolan quickly began to reply, "That girl-"

He stopped himself immediately as realization dawned on him like a blazing sun. The girl! The Breton child he gave the tiara to! Could it be?!

Quickly he turned, intending to inspect the bound assassin woman once more. When his eyes fell upon where she lay only minutes before, however, he saw only the loosened ropes staring back at him.

"She's gone!" he gasped.

"What?" Attlan asked, obviously confused at the sudden change in tone.

Rolan jumped to his feet and cast a spell to chase away the shadows from his eyes, "The assassin is gone!"

"What?!" Attlan exclaimed as he rose and came to stand alongside Rolan.

Both men drew their swords and stood back-to-back as they scanned the darkness for any sign of the woman. Attlan called out to Samus, trying to rouse the man from his sleep with no success. Grumbling with unending annoyance at the Redguard he knelt down to shake him.

"By the Nine," the half-Altmer whispered.

"What?" Rolan asked without turning.

"He's dead," Attlan gasped.

"_What?_"

"Stabbed in the side," Attlan elaborated. "He must have bled into his lungs, suffocating in his sleep. But how did she?"

"Where is she?"

Again Attlan stood with his back pressed against Rolan's. Together, they moved around the small camp searching for over an hour and looking for any sign of tracks.

Not surprisingly, they found none.

"Damn, she's good," his friend declared with a shake of his head.

"I suppose Samus was her intended victim after all," Rolan lamented. He crouched down beside the deceased Redguard and closed his opened eyes. It was a small act of compassion, and the only apology he had to give.

"Apparently," Attlan agreed, "but did she plan this? Those ropes should have been impossible to undo, and she didn't even cut through them."

"We were only a hair's breadth away," Rolan realized. "She could have killed all three of us with little effort."

"There was no point," Attlan said, his voice sardonic. "We were no threat."

Rolan barked out a bitter laugh at the idea but found no argument to discount Attlan's theory. Why should she kill them? If her contract was only for Samus then she would receive no additional payment for their lives.

Despite all that, the thought bothering him the most lay in wondering about her identity. Could she truly be the young child he met so long ago in Bruma? The timing seemed about right, but her small stature made him wonder.

"So what should we do now?" Attlan asked.

Rolan shrugged and sighed loudly, "I am exhausted. Samus is dead now and there is nothing more to be done except deliver him to the Anvil authorities in the morning. We should rest."

"You're not worried she might come back to finish her work?"

"It is as you said," he shrugged again, "her contract is complete so there is no need to risk herself any further."

Attlan pursed his lips, but nodded in agreement before asking, "Can't we just leave him here?"

"Attlan," Rolan grumbled.

With a disgruntled sigh, his friend waved off the on-coming lecture, "Fine, fine. So much for our reputation."

"What?"

"Well," his friend continued, "we can take on a cluster of bandits, fight ourselves out of a horde of ogres, and wade through a mountain of goblins but a skinny Breton-girl assassin makes us look like a couple of boars humping a rock."

"Interesting imagery."

"I'm gifted that way," Attlan shrugged, grinning once more.

Dejected and disheartened the two mages set about wrapping Samus' body in a pair of blankets. When they were satisfied the scent of his body was contained they dropped on their mats and quickly found sleep.

Rolan's dreams were filled with disturbing images of burning forests and a skull-faced figure of ash stalking about him. At some point in the night he awoke with a start and looked up at the twin moons high in the sky. On the other side of the now waning fire Attlan slept peacefully, his soft snores filling the otherwise quiet air.

Realizing there was no danger, Rolan lay back down and tucked his arms behind his head. Intent on getting some sleep that night, he ran though a meditation technique to control his breathing and relax his jittering nerves.

After his second deep breath, he felt the blade touch his throat. His first instinct was to shout out to his friend, but a cloth covered his mouth suddenly and a foul odor filled his lungs. He immediately recognized the effects of the paralyzing poison as the muscles in his body constricted, making any speech or movement impossible.

Eyes going wide, he kept his body remained perfectly still.

Without a sound, the figure of a woman clad in black drifted into view. Saying nothing, she settled herself over him and leaned down low so her face was only inches from his own. Next she whispered a familiar spell, but put very little power behind it. Her features became more distinct as the area around them began to glow dimly.

Once again maintaining her eerie silence, she removed her hand – along with the saturated cloth – from his mouth before reaching up to pull off her cowl and lower the scarf covering the lower half of her face. Then, to his shock, she slowly brushed the short dangling hair back from her forehead, revealing a distinctly designed piece of jewelry.

Rolan's eyes locked onto the tiara, and he knew without a doubt who she was.

His eyes drifted down into hers, and he could not stop the look of remorse that swept into his eyes.

_Oh, poor, dear child,_ he thought.

What course of events brought her to _this_? What horrors did she suffer to lead her down such a dark path? Did she regret it at all? Could he have helped her off this road to ruin?

He wanted so badly to know. Amazingly, in that moment, he found himself forgiving her for killing Samus.

"Ulfson," she whispered

Rolan thought he saw tears forming in her eyes.

Again she surprised him by touching her fingertips to his skin. Little by little she ran her touch across his whole face with a slightly desperate look. It was almost as if she wanted to commit every curve, wrinkle, and fold to memory by absorbing it through tactile contact. Rolan held no protests.

"Please," she begged suddenly, "tell me your name."

Her fingers tingled as tiny tendrils of magicka slipped through his cheek and down to his throat. The effects of the poison faded just enough for him to whisper a single word before closing in once more.

"Rolan."

A smile swept across her gaunt features, lighting her face up brighter than any star. She actually laughed as the tears swept down her face and dripped onto him.

"Rolan Ulfson," she whispered with all the reverence one would give to the Nine as she continued to smile. "I know your name."

He tried to ask for her name in return, but still could not move even to speak.

But she saw the silent plea in his eyes and answered, "Arissa Ros-… Arissa Lachance."

Rolan noticed as she struggled with her family name. She seemed as if she were about to say another name initially. The smile also faded from her face.

Finally, Arissa removed the dagger from his throat. Saying nothing more, she leaned down and pressed her lips against his in a soft lingering kiss before standing to dash off into the shadows.

Seconds later the effects of the poison wore off, and Rolan bound up to his feet, looking for any trace of the poor girl. An idea sprung to mind and he raced off towards where Mehrunes Razor lay embedded in the earth. When he arrived at the site, however, the Razor was gone and there were no tracks to follow.

Sighing with disappointment, the Breton mage ran a troubled hand through his hair and turned back towards the camp.

"Arissa Lachance," he whispered to himself. "I will not forget you."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm so very sorry this update took so long, but life does not adhere to any schedule I'd like it to. Contrary to what I said last time, this is not the final chapter. In fact, the _next _chapter will conclude this portion of Rolan and Attlan's story. Then, hopefully, I can work more on my Knights of the Nine idea... and, of course, Sister of Shadows.

There's a lot of references to previous chapters here, most of which should become clear if you go back and look for them. On the whole "family secret" thing... well... depending on your knowledge of Elder Scrolls lore it may not play as well for some as others. Needless to say, on the surface, it should hold up to scrutiny but if you actually took the time to research and dig deep enough, it might not retain quite the same flavor.

As always reviews and critiques are encouraged.


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